THE  PORT 
OF  STORMS 


ANNA  MSCLURE  SHOLl 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 


THE    PORT 
OF    STORMS 


By 
ANNA    McCLURE    SHOLL 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  LAW  OF  LIFE" 


D.   APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

NEW   YORK 

1905 


COPYRIGHT,  1905,  BY 
D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Published  March,  1905 


TO 
MY  KINSMAN 

HIRAM   CORSON,   LL.  D.,   LITT.D. 

PROFESSOR    EMERITUS    OF  ENGLISH 
LITERATURE,  CORNELL   UNIVERSITY 


2138180 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  PAGE 

I.  THE  CHOICE i 

II.  THE  CITY 77 

III.  THE  DREAMER .        .  187 

IV.  THE  PRISONER.        .......  251 

V.  URBS  BEATA 295 


BOOK  I 
THE   CHOICE 

"It  is  no  casual  beauty  that  will  content  us;  what  we  are 
seeking  after  is  that  supreme  beauty  which  must  of  necessity  be 
unique." 


CHAPTER   I 

BETWEEN  five  and  six  of  a  June  afternoon  Henry 
Winwood  was  seated  with  a  visitor  in  his  private  office, 
a  room  whose  aspect,  like  the  library  of  a  scholar,  was 
significant  of  more  than  the  outward  processes  of  labor. 
The  rich,  sparse  furniture,  the  prominent  desk,  ominously 
free  from  litter,  suggested  the  orderliness  of  laws  govern- 
ing a  great  enterprise. 

Winwood's  solid  frame  filled  one  of  the  armchairs. 
His  massive  head,  his  obliquely  set  ears,  his  unshapely 
hands  and  feet,  told  of  an  origin  deep  in  the  soil;  but 
his  keen  gray  eyes  were  indicative  of  an  intellect  far 
from  pastoral. 

Contrasted  with  him,  James  Erskine  looked  the  ideal- 
ist, a  lean,  ascetic  figure  of  an  American  business  monk, 
his  features  delicately  tooled  by  sharp  edges  of  thought, 
his  spare  body  expressing  the  domination  of  the  spirit 
as  truly  as  that  of  an  anchorite.  He  had  the  patient 
expression  of  the  man  who  waits  for,  rather  than  makes, 
his  chances. 

Winwood  knew  the  type  well.  He  had  met  it  before, 
in  small  towns  where  small  manufacturers,  according  to 
modern  standards,  carried  on  industries  which  had  no 
right  to  stand  alone.  When  he  had  thundered  his  com- 
mands to  these  men,  "  Get  in  the  procession,  or  get  out 
of  business,"  they  had  acted  in  different  ways,  each 
according  to  his  traditions  or  to  his  financial  standing. 
Some  had  capitulated,  glad  of  the  shelter  of  a  great  cor- 
poration ;  others  had  resisted  and  ultimately  gone  down 
before  the  enemy ;  others  were  still  struggling,  and  would 

3 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

struggle.     In  this  last  category  the  capitalist  placed  his 
visitor. 

The  conversation,  after  following  lines  traversed  on 
previous  occasions,  had  led  as  usual  to  a  deadlock.  James 
Erskine,  a  petty  mill-owner  in  the  town  of  Trenthampton, 
would  not  sell,  nor  would  he  merge  his  plant  in  the  greater 
one  which  Winwood  had  taken  under  his  protection. 

The  capitalist  brought  down  his  fist  at  last  with  a 
bang. 

"  But,  Lord,  man !  we  can  drive  you  out  of  business 
in  three  months.  We're  underselling  you  now." 

He  looked  keenly  into  his  visitor's  face  to  see  the 
effect  of  his  words,  which  were,  after  all,  only  conjec- 
tural. A  man  who  gauged  everything  from  the  com- 
mercial standpoint,  he  could  conceive  of  no  other  reason 
for  Erskine's  resistance  than  the  fact  that  he  was  stronger 
financially  than  Winwood  supposed.  It  never  occurred 
to  him  that  pride  in  an  inherited  and  independent  busi- 
ness might  be  a  strong  factor  of  the  opposition. 

"  If  you  think  you  can  drive  me  out  of  business  in 
three  months,  you're  welcome  to  try.  But  I  have  cus- 
tomers whose  grandfathers  dealt  with  my  grandfather, 
and  I  don't  think  I'll  lose  them." 

"  Grandfathers !  There  ain't  any  in  our  concern. 
We're  up  to  date,  and  we  don't  mix  sentiment  with  busi- 
ness, any  more  than  we  run  our  machinery  with  violet- 
water." 

Erskine  nodded. 

"  I'm  not  banking  on  sentiment.  I've  told  you  my 
reasons  for  not  accepting  your  offer,  at  least  for  the  pres- 
ent. My  son  may  have  something  to  say  in  the  matter," 
he  added  with  an  intonation  of  pride. 

"  Your  son,  eh  ?    I  thought  he  was  in  Paris." 
4 


THE    CHOICE 


"  He  has  been  working  in  the  Paris  hospitals  for  two 
years,  but  he  is  coming  home  " — he  drew  out  his  watch ; 
"  his  train  is  due  at  seven." 

"Is  he  going  to  practise  in  Trenthampton ?  It's  a 
small  field  for  a  young  man." 

"  I  suppose  he'll  practise  here.  I  hope  so.  We  would 
like  to  have  him  with  us." 

Winwood's  features  softened  as  he  nodded  assent. 

"  I  don't  blame  you.  I  always  wanted  a  boy  myself, 
but  the  Lord  didn't  see  fit  to  send  me  one.  Not  that  I 
don't  appreciate  my  girl,"  he  added,  "  but  girls  belong  to 
their  mothers." 

"  And  I  always  wanted  a  daughter,"  Erskine  said, 
rising  to  take  his  leave  while  the  atmosphere  was  mellow, 
but  in  the  same  moment  a  knock  on  the  office  door 
announced  a  visitor.  "  Stay  and  see  mine,"  Winwood 
answered  as  his  daughter  entered. 

Erskine  had  never  met  Olivia  Winwood,  her  brief, 
meteoric  summers  at  Trenthampton  being  spent  in  a  circle 
with  which  he  was  not  familiar,  but  he  had  heard  enough 
contradictory  statements  concerning  her  to  arouse  his 
curiosity. 

She  did  not  wait  for  her  father's  introduction,  but 
came  forward  with  a  frank,  direct  manner. 

"  You  are  Mr.  James  Erskine,  are  you  not  ?  I  am 
glad  to  meet  you." 

Ill-concealed  astonishment  was  in  Erskine's  face  as  he 
took  her  hand.  He  had  expected  to  see  a  young  woman 
whose  inherited  rawness  of  type  was  covered  superficially 
with  the  veneer  of  wealth,  but  Olivia  Winwood  in  her 
look  and  bearing  might  have  been  of  noble  birth.  Erskine 
wondered  what  freak  of  atavism  had  produced  in  her  the 
indefinable  marks  of  th3  aristocrat.  If  she  were  beauti- 

5 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

ful — and  of  her  beauty  he  was  doubtful — she  possessed 
the  still  greater  gift  of  distinction. 

The  capitalist  saw  his  wonder,  and  rubbed  his  big 
hands  together  in  satisfaction. 

"  You  had  never  met  my  daughter?  " 

A  note  of  reproach  was  in  Erskine's  voice  as  he 
answered : 

"  I  have  never  had  the  opportunity  of  meeting  Miss 
Winwood.  You  see,"  he  added,  turning  to  Olivia,  "  Mrs. 
Erskine  and  myself  have  been  out  of  touch  with  the  young 
people  here  since  our  son  has  been  abroad." 

The  girl  smiled. 

"  I  am  not  in  touch  with  them  either.  I  am  in  Trent- 
hampton  so  little." 

Her  voice,  singularly  low  and  mellow,  held  a  with- 
drawn accent,  as  if,  by  reason  of  wide  experience  or  of 
mature  thought,  she  refused  to  be  classed  with  youth. 

"  She  is  always  roaming,"  Winwood  said,  regarding 
her  with  resentful  pride.  "  Her  traveling  expenses  cost 
me  a  small  fortune,  and  as  for  her  clothes — why,  the  price 
of  those  would  keep  three  families  in  comfort." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  her  father  curiously,  but 
with  a  kind  of  abstract  and  impersonal  interest,  as  if  he 
were  some  one  else's  parent  and  this  was  her  first  acquaint- 
ance with  a  self-made  man. 

"  I  have  had  a  wire  from  mother,"  she  said ;  "  she  will 
be  here  at  seven." 

"  Are  you  going  to  meet  her?  " 

"  I  am  on  the  way  to  the  station  now.  The  cart  is  at 
the  door." 

"  Mr.  Erskine  is  also  meeting  that  train — maybe 
you'd  give  him  a  lift." 

She  turned. 

6 


THE    CHOICE 


"  I  will  drive  you  down  with  pleasure." 

Erskine  was  about  to  decline,  but  something  in  the 
girl's  voice  seemed  to  imply  that  the  matter  was  settled. 

She  drew  on  her  driving-gloves,  bidding  her  father 
good-by  with  a  manner  which,  though  entirely  respectful, 
held  an  element  of  comprehension. 

The  groom  stood  in  attendance  by  the  cart,  its  highly 
polished  sides  shining  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  She 
stepped  lightly  to  her  seat,  and  Erskine  took  his  place 
beside  her,  conscious  of  her  femininity  as  of  a  perfume, 
but  conscious,  too,  of  a  strength  in  her  more  than 
feminine. 

"  We  have  time  for  a  little  spin,"  she  said,  looking  at 
her  watch,  which  bore  her  monogram  in  rubies.  Every- 
thing about  her  spoke  of  wealth  except  her  bearing.  The 
man  at  her  side,  for  whom  the  exigencies  of  business  life 
had  killed  mystery  and  the  charm  of  mystery  as  an  acid 
kills  flowers,  now  felt  an  almost  forgotten  interest  stir 
within  him.  From  time  to  time  he  stole  interrogative 
glances  at  her  face.  In  repose  it  was  somewhat  negative, 
as  if  she  reserved  the  expression  of  her  thoughts  and 
feelings  until  a  certain  curiosity  concerning  life,  or  per- 
haps her  own  personality,  should  be  satisfied. 

"  This  is  a  good  hour  for  driving,"  Erskine  said  as 
they  bowled  along  the  broad,  level  road,  underneath  the 
arching  elms  of  the  main  street  of  Trenthampton,  trees 
so  tall  and  graceful  of  outline  that  they  imparted  to  the 
village  thoroughfare  something  of  the  dignity  of  a  cathe- 
dral aisle.  The  few  shops  were  soon  left  behind.  Then 
began  the  white-painted,  green-shuttered  houses  of  the 
older  town,  suggestive  of  a  phase  of  American  life  now 
as  out  of  date  as  daguerreotypes.  On  the  near-by  hills 
were  the  country-seats  of  the  summer  colony  that  had 

7 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

made  Trenthampton  fashionable.  Beyond,  a  low  range 
of  mountains  stood  out  in  silhouettes  of  violet  against  the 
calm  eastern  sky. 

"  Do  you  like  this  time?    I  prefer  early  morning." 

Erskine  smiled. 

"  I  thought  all  young  ladies  liked  the  approach  of 
twilight." 

She  touched  the  horse  lightly  with  the  whip. 

"  It  is  an  unbearable  hour  to  me ;  but  then  I  do  not 
love  mystery.  I  hear  that  you  are  expecting  your  son 
home  from  Paris,  Mr.  Erskine." 

"  He  is  coming  on  this  train." 

"  He  has  been  away  long?  " 

"  Two  years." 

"  I  wonder  how  he  will  like  Trenthampton — after 
Paris,"  she  said,  musingly;  then  she  turned  and  looked 
steadily  at  Erskine  for  a  moment.  "  Does  he  look  like 
you  ?  "  she  added. 

"  I  really  don't  know,"  he  answered,  laughing,  "  but 
I  don't  think  he  does." 

"  Do  people  interest  you  ?  "  she  asked  abruptly. 

"  They  used  to — until  I  had  to  work  too  hard." 

She  nodded. 

"  My  father  has  no  curiosity  about  people  either.  He 
divides  them  into  those  who  buy  and  those  who  sell." 

They  had  now  reached  a  part  of  the  road  from  which 
all  views  were  excluded  but  that  of  the  mountains,  remote 
and  austere  in  the  deep  light  of  the  June  evening.  She 
drew  rein,  and  they  sat  for  some  moments  in  silence  look- 
ing toward  those  lonely  heights. 

"  The  mountains  are  the  true  aristocrats  of  Trent- 
hampton," she  said  with  a  smile,  as  she  turned  the  cart 
about.  "  We'll  see  the  pretenders  at  the  station." 

8 


THE    CHOICE 


The  Trenthampton  station  was  a  trim  modern  struc- 
ture set  about  with  flower-beds,  and  surrounded  at  this 
hour  by  a  throng  of  carts  and  station  wagons  whose  occu- 
pants were  chiefly  matrons  and  young  girls  in  dainty 
costumes.  The  majority  of  them,  belonging  to  the  sum- 
mer colony,  were  unknown  to  Erskine,  but  Olivia  bowed 
right  and  left  as  she  made  her  way  skilfully  to  an  un- 
appropriated place.  Her  companion  wondered  if  her 
interest  in  people  were  that  of  the  dissector. 

He  jumped  down,  and,  putting  aside  with  a  gesture 
the  officious  groom,  gave  her  his  hand.  For  years  no 
woman  had  aroused  in  him  the  curiosity  which  this  girl 
had.  He  found  himself  wondering  what  Robert  would 
think  of  her. 

Robert !  His  heart  leaped  as  he  heard  the  whistle  of 
the  approaching  train,  and  over  him  swept  all  at  once  the 
emotion  of  glad  welcome  which  for  weeks  had  made  the 
heart  of  the  boy's  mother  young  again.  But  women  have 
time  to  feel. 

The  train  was  in  now.  Erskine  pressed  forward 
through  the  throng  just  behind  Olivia.  Suddenly  she 
paused. 

"  Is  that  your  son  helping  my  mother  from  the  car?  " 

A  thrill  of  pride  went  through  the  father.  It  was 
Robert  indeed,  taller  than  he  remembered  him,  and  with 
something  foreign  and  distinguished  in  his  aspect  which 
had  changed  the  good-looking  college  graduate  into  a 
man,  concerning  whom  women  might  be  curious,  and 
men  not  indifferent.  One  woman,  it  seemed,  had  already 
found  him  interesting.  Olivia's  mother,  a  fat,  florid, 
expensive-looking  matron,  whose  manner  seemed  to  be- 
token that  she  would  confuse  the  affairs  of  her  children 
by  not  remaining  in  her  own  generation,  rustled  forward 
2  9 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

to  greet  Erskine,  her  approach  heralded  by  a  faint  odor 
of  vervain.  An  unwonted  cordiality  was  in  her  manner 
as  she  said,  in  her  high-pitched  voice: 

"  Mr.  Erskine,  I've  brought  you  your  son." 

Robert  stepped  forward,  oblivious  of  every  face  but 
the  kind,  worn  one,  transfigured  by  its  eager  welcome. 
The  young  man  was  taller  than  his  father,  and  of  a  lean, 
firm,  athletic  build.  He  had  strong  features,  but  the 
brown  eyes  were  boyish,  holding  that  almost  divine  look 
of  youth  which  is  born  of  keen  enthusiasms.  If  Paris 
had  wooed  him  it  was  with  the  caresses  of  a  sweetheart, 
not  a  mistress. 

The  matron  beamed  upon  him  with  the  claim  of  one 
who  has  found  a  valuable  acquisition  to  her  summer  cir- 
cle. The  girl  regarded  him  with  a  kind  of  impersonal 
curiosity,  a  touch  of  haughty  indifference  in  her  bearing. 

Mrs.  Winwood  broke  in  at  the  first  possible  moment : 

"  Olivia,  my  dear,  let  me  introduce  Dr.  Robert  Er- 
skine. We  came  down  together.  I  thought  his  face  was 
familiar,  and  as  our  chairs  were  next  in  the  drawing- 
room  car,  we  got  into  conversation  on  the  way.  He  has 
been  in  Paris  two  years,  and  he  plays  golf  and  tennis. 
He  has  promised  to  call,  and  I  have  asked  him  for  the 
lawn-party  on  the  fifth." 

She  paused  to  take  breath.  Robert,  smothering  a  de- 
sire to  laugh,  held  out  his  hand.  Then  he  gave  a  per- 
ceptible start. 

"  I  think  I  saw  you  once  in  Paris,"  he  said  with  a 
slightly  foreign  accent.  "  Were  you  not  in  front  of  that 
big  church  on  Montmartre — I  forget  its  name — on  an 
April  afternoon  a  year  ago?  " 

The  patience  which  had  been  in  Olivia's  face  while 
her  mother  chattered  changed  to  a  look  of  wonder. 

10 


THE    CHOICE 


"  Yes,  I  remember  it  perfectly.  Were  you  also  there 
admiring — the  view  ?  " 

Robert  bit  his  lip. 

"  I  also  was  admiring — the  view." 

Her  dark  eyes  searched  his  face ;  then  a  smile  curved 
her  lips. 

On  the  way  home  he  took  out  a  card-case  and  drew 
from  it  a  pencil-drawing  on  a  leaf  torn  from  a  notebook. 

"  Is  it  not  like  her  ?  "  he  said.  "  Antoine  did  it.  He 
was  with  me  that  day.  We  thought  her  a  Parisienne, 
and  now  I  meet  her  in  Trenthampton !  Who  are  they, 
father?  The  mother  told  me  so  much  that  she  told  me 
nothing." 

"  They  belong  to  the  summer  colony.  She  is  the 
daughter  and  heiress  of  Henry  Winwood,  my  chief  busi- 
ness rival,  a  man  who  is  trying  to  undersell  me,"  he  said 
with  a  touch  of  bitterness. 

Robert  laughed. 

"  Ah,  then  I  will  have  none  of  her — the  proud  minx !  " 
He  paused,  then  added,  with  a  certain  shyness  which 
transformed  him  for  the  instant  into  the  college  fresh- 
man he  had  once  been,  "  How  is  Brooke?  " 


II 


CHAPTER   II 

"  ON  my  return,"  the  letter  ran,  "  I  shall  expect  you 
to  give  me  my  answer.  The  two  years  are  over,  and  this 
city  is  still  the  wilderness  all  places  would  be  without 
you.  You  asked  me  in  your  last  if  there  have  been  no 
interludes.  Well,  you  know  my  temperament,  but  stage- 
love  doesn't  go  deep.  One  plays  Pierrot  to  Columbine, 
that  is  all !  Besides,  I  worked  too  hard,  even  for  mimic 
romance. 

"  Do  you  doubt  me  because  we  have  known  each  other 
from  childhood?  Love  is  not  always  born  of  strange- 
ness, Brooke." 

What  followed  she  knew  by  heart.  His  bright,  Shel- 
leyian  presentation  of  his  case  seemed  wholly  character- 
istic of  the  Robert  she  had  known.  She  found  herself 
wishing  that  his  feeling  for  her  had  been  in  some  way 
modified  or  changed  by  his  residence  abroad — that  she 
might  meet  him  as  a  friend,  without  a  sense  of  romantic 
obligations. 

She  longed,  yet  dreaded,  to  see  him.  Over  against 
her  tentative  love  were  her  practical  plans  for  a  future 
not  deflected  by  the  demands  of  a  dual  existence.  Her 
college  life,  just  ended,  though  not  regarded  with  the 
overseriousness  of  the  bluestocking,  had  yet  awakened 
in  her  certain  ambitions  which,  if  followed  conscientiously 
and  with  no  feminine  reservations,  would  take  her  far 
enough  away  from  the  existence  Robert  was  planning  for 
her.  Despite  her  joy  over  his  coming,  she  was  not  pre- 
pared to  surrender  to  him  the  whole  of  a  future  in  which 
her  own  self-expression  was  an  important  element. 

12 


THE    CHOICE 


She  read  the  letter  through  again,  then,  restless  with 
anticipation,  walked  slowly  toward  the  house,  intending 
to  divert  her  thoughts  by  meeting  some  ever-present 
nursery  exigency. 

As  she  passed  her  father's  study  door  he  called  her 
to  listen  to  a  passage  of  translation  upon  which  he  was 
working.  Charles  Peyton,  lawyer  turned  poet,  was  a  tall, 
delicately  built  man  of  the  scholar  type.  His  deep-set, 
vague  blue  eyes,  his  oversensitive  nose  and  mouth,  indi- 
cated that  he  possessed  at  least  the  irritability  of  genius. 

Brooke  looked  about  the  familiar  place,  which  was 
marked  with  her  father's  restlessness  and  filled  with  his 
nervous  atmosphere.  Leaning  back  in  his  chair,  Peyton 
regarded  his  daughter  with  curiosity,  not  unmixed  with 
admiration.  Her  erect,  slender  figure  was  almost  boyish 
in  its  slim  grace.  She  had  the  appearance  of  a  woman 
who  has  lived  much  in  the  open  air,  and  whose  intellectual 
life  has  been  as  wholesome  as  sunshine. 

She  listened  attentively  to  the  reading,  then  gave  her 
criticism.  She  saw  by  the  slight  frown  on  his  brow  that 
it  was  not  what  he  wanted,  and  she  hastened  to  mollify 
him  by  an  allusion  to  one  of  his  sonnets.  But  his  vexa- 
tion was  still  apparent.  The  criticism  was  more  mature 
than  he  expected,  and  he  belonged  to  the  type  of  parent 
to  whom  a  child  in  its  riper  development  would  be  always 
a  rival.  To  turn  the  tables,  he  said : 

"  You  should  apply  some  of  that  keenness  of  dissection 
to  your  own  writings." 

"  I  hope  to,  next  fall — in  the  city,"  she  said. 

He  smiled. 

"  Have  you  told  your  mother  that  you  wish  to  be  a 
metropolitan  ?  " 

Her  face  softened. 

13 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Can  she  spare  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  she  can."  She  was  silent  a  mo- 
ment, then  she  added,  "  Unless  I  can  do  more  for  her 
there  than  here." 

Her  father  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  It  is  not  my  fault  that  your  mother  gives  all  her 
time  to  the  children." 

Brooke  went  on  to  the  nursery,  wondering  whether 
she  herself  were  a  child  that  she  could  not  be  patient 
with  the  curious  domestic  conditions  of  her  home.  The 
little  scene  with  her  father  had  brought  her  sharply  back 
to  realities  whose  importance  seemed  to  make  dalliance 
with  romance  an  unpardonable  folly.  To  go  away  with 
Robert  into  the  exclusions  of  love  was  to  part,  perchance, 
with  her  own  identity,  with  that  something  which  made 
her  a  factor  of  more  or  less  importance  in  the  complex 
problem  hidden  by  the  outward  simplicity  of  her  mother's 
household. 

Mrs.  Peyton  was  seated  in  the  darkened  nursery,  her 
youngest  child  in  her  lap.  Her  face,  with  its  strong, 
irregular  features,  was  of  the  type  which  lends  itself 
well  to  portraiture,  but  it  had  the  weary  passivity  of  a 
woman  whose  personality  has  been  obscured  by  marriage, 
as  by  a  fog. 

Talking  with  her  was  Robert's  godfather,  Dr.  Will- 
iam Gorton,  now  past  eighty  years  of  age,  but  still  con- 
tinuing the  practise,  the  scientific  investigations  and 
writings  that  had  made  his  home  in  Trenthampton  a 
kind  of  shrine  for  the  members  of  his  profession. 

He  rose  as  Brooke  entered  the  room,  and  came  for- 
ward to  greet  her.  Over  six  feet  in  height,  and  of  a 
rugged,  muscular  build,  erect  as  a  pine-tree,  he  had  that 

J4 


THE    CHOICE 


look  of  youth  which  is  preserved  by  intense  mental 
activity. 

"  I'm  glad  you're  home,  Brooke;  you're  needed  here," 
he  said  with  the  abrupt  frankness  characteristic  of  him. 

Mrs.  Peyton  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"  I've  missed  her,  but  I  don't  believe  in  girls  sharing 
their  mothers'  duties  too  much.  It's  like  teaching  them 
economics  before  they  know  their  poets." 

"  I  can  hold  a  baby  as  well  as  ever,"  Brooke  said, 
taking  the  child  with  a  graceful  gesture  from  her  moth- 
er's lap. 

In  the  same  instant  she  heard  her  name  spoken  by  a 
voice  which  seemed  to  control  the  memories  of  her  entire 
life.  She  did  not  turn  at  once,  only  pressed  the  child 
closer,  glad  that  the  nursery  twilight  hid  the  glow  in 
her  face. 

Her  mother  rose,  both  hands  outstretched.  She  looked 
into  Robert's  face  with  eyes  that  searched. 

"  Well,  am  I  there  ?  "  he  said,  smiling. 

"  I  was  looking  for  a  small  boy  in  knickerbockers." 

"  You'll  find  him,"  Dr.  Corton  said.  "  I  found  him 
last  night." 

Robert  turned  to  Brooke  with  a  manner  half  confident, 
half  appealing. 

"Am  I  before  the  bar  with  you?  Are  you  glad  to 
see  me?" 

"  You  know  I  am.    Are  you  glad  to  get  home  ?  " 

"  That  will  depend  not  wholly  on  myself." 

She  laughed. 

"  No,  you  will  always  be  independent.  Are  you  still 
a  disciple  of  Spinoza,  Robert,  and  are  you  still  a  bully?  " 

"  That,  my  dear,  you  will  have  to  find  out  for 
yourself." 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  I  imagine  that  you  have  not  changed  much." 

"You  have;  you  are  very  handsome,  Brooke." 

He  looked  at  her  with  frank  admiration,  with  some- 
thing deeper  and  tenderer  than  admiration  in  his  clear 
eyes.  Long  afterward,  like  a  dream  of  dawn  touching 
with  prophetic  light  all  hopes  and  purposes,  this  vision 
of  her  came  back  to  him,  standing  before  him  with  the 
child  in  her  arms,  the  old  child-love  of  him  in  her  face. 

"  You  are  going  to  practise  in  Trenthampton,  Rob- 
ert?" Mrs.  Peyton  asked,  looking  from  him  to  Brooke. 
By  his  manner  he  seemed  already  to  be  claiming  her 
daughter,  and,  though  she  could  see  no  obstacle  to  their 
union,  she  lacked  the  confidence  in  romance  imparted  by 
a  triumphant  personal  experience. 

Dr.  Gorton  answered  her  question. 

"  Of  course  he  is  going  to  settle  here,"  he  said  with 
the  didactic  emphasis  of  old  age.  "  He  has  given  enough 
of  his  vitality  to  the  city." 

"  On  the  contrary,  godfather,  Paris  gave  everything 
to  me,"  Robert  said,  then  looked  at  Brooke  as  if  she  alone 
of  the  group  could  understand  just  what  he  meant.  He 
was  longing  to  be  alone  with  her  that  he  might  the 
quicker  destroy  the  triangle  made  by  his  absence.  He 
was  jealously  conscious  of  those  two  years,  as  of  a  third 
inscrutable  person. 

"  But  I  need  you  in  Trenthampton,"  Dr.  Gorton  said. 

Brooke's  imagination  leaped  to  a  conclusion.  Robert 
was  to  be  the  heir  of  this  great  physician,  his  godson  in 
no  usual  sense ;  inheriting  his  devotion  to  science,  his 
large  conception  of  service.  These  thoughts  preoccupied 
her  during  the  general  conversation  which  followed,  and 
which  Robert's  impatience  terminated  rather  abruptly  by 
a  request  that  she  would  go  walking  with  him. 

16 


THE    CHOICE 


True  to  their  old  preferences  they  chose  a  road  which 
led  to  the  hills.  Alone  with  him,  she  was  conscious  of 
a  desire  to  gain  time,  to  weigh  and  measure  and  judge 
before  emotion  made  clear  judgment  impossible.  She 
took  refuge,  therefore,  in  the  practical  subject  of  his 
work. 

"  It  is  really  to  be  Trenthampton,  then ;  not  the  city?  " 

"  Yes,  I  made  my  decision  last  night,  when  I  saw 
how  much  they  wished  it.  I  prefer  the  city.  I  am  afraid 
I  am  not  big  enough  to  live  in  a  small  place." 

"  Few  of  us  are,  I'm  afraid." 

"  But  I  didn't  bring  you  out  here  to  talk  of  my  work. 
I  want  my  answer." 

He  waited  a  moment. 

"  Brooke? " 

"  Yes,  Robert." 

"  You're  not  going  to  play  the  coquette.  You're  too 
noble,  too  frank  for  that." 

"  We  can't  be  sure  yet,"  she  said.  "  We've  been 
separated " 

"  We  were  not  separated,"  he  broke  in.  "  You  knelt 
in  cathedrals  with  me,  and  you  stood  with  me  before  pic- 
tures you've  never  seen." 

She  nodded. 

"  I  did  indeed.    I  was  with  you  in  thought." 

"  Then,  why,"  he  said  reproachfully,  "  do  you  speak 
as  if  these  years  were  a  barrier?  Tell  me  the  truth.  Is 
it  that  you  have  ceased  to  care  in  the  old  way?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  have  not  learned  to  care  in  the  new.  I 
don't  wish  to  bring  my  uncertainties  to  you  as  a  mar- 
riage-portion. Why  can't  we  be  children  again  for  a 
while!" 

"  You  can't  stay  a  child  forever,  Brooke !  " 
17 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  I  wouldn't  mind.  A  child  has  no  care.  It  can 
always  play  in  the  sunshine.  It  can  always  see  the  little 
green  elf-things.  I  wouldn't  mind  being  a  child,"  she 
said  with  a  touch  of  perverseness. 

"  But  why  shouldn't  you  be  care-free — with  me?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  That  is  precisely  the  point.  I'd  be  too  happy.  I'd 
forget  everything,  every  one  but  you." 

He  smiled. 

"  Would  that  be  such  a  hardship?  " 

"  No,  but  it  would  be  selfish.  I  want  to  bring  my 
mother  somehow  out  of  that  treadmill  she's  in,  that  de- 
lirium of  domesticity.  You  know  how  it  is,  but  a  poet 
can  never  realize  it.  He  lives  chiefly  in  Greece,  my 
father." 

"  Have  you  any  plan  for  helping  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  go  to  the  city  and  write.  I  suppose  it's  a 
wild  idea.  I  might  end  in  the  traditional  author's  garret, 
or,  on  the  other  hand,  I  might  have  all  the  success  of 
mediocrity." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Brooke,  you  would  perish  in  the  city.  You  are 
made  for  the  open  road." 

"  Yes,  and  if  you  were  going  to  settle  in  town  you'd 
say  '  only  there  can  you  attain  your  fullest  development.'  " 

He  laughed. 

"  I  am  selfish.    I  want  you ;  you  mustn't  go  away." 

They  were  passing  the  grounds  of  a  house  whose 
towers  and  chateau-like  roofs  could  be  seen  rising  above 
the  trees  a  long  distance  away. 

"  This  is  the  Winwoods'  place,"  Brooke  said.  "  They 
are  newcomers,  atrociously  rich." 

"  I  met  the  mother  and  daughter  yesterday,"  Robert 
18 


THE    CHOICE 


answered.  Then  he  told  her  of  his  introduction  at  the 
station. 

A  jealous  thrill  went  through  her,  of  which  she  was 
at  once  ashamed.  From  childhood  she  had  punished  her- 
self for  her  faults,  and  incidentally  saved  her  soul,  by 
applying  moral  counter-irritants.  She  spoke  now  with 
deliberate  enthusiasm. 

"  Olivia  Winwood  has  a  more  impressive  personality 
than  any  woman  I  ever  met.  I  have  only  had  two  con- 
versations with  her,  but  I  shall  never  forget  the  least 
part  of  them." 

"  Don't  let's  talk  of  her.  What  is  she  to  us  ?  I  want 
to  be  alone  with  you  on  these  hills." 

His  voice  caressed,  enfolded  her,  took  her  with  him 
into  some  high,  if  perilous,  distinction. 

They  had  reached  a  point  overlooking  the  broad  val- 
ley and  the  distant  mountains.  Behind  them  the  hills 
swept  away  in  clear,  broad  lines  of  flight,  their  ample 
sides  traversed  by  slow-moving  cloud  shadows.  The  air 
was  of  golden  and  sensuous  noon,  pungent  with  the  odor 
of  dry  pine-needles  and  sweetbrier.  Bright  insects 
flashed  iridescence  from  their  tiny  wings. 

He  turned  to  Brooke.  Sun-lover  that  she  was,  she 
stood  with  uncovered  head  in  the  full  glory  of  the  mid- 
day, her  eyes  fixed  on  the  mountains,  her  whole  being 
yielding  itself  to  the  splendors  of  the  summer.  He  had 
met  many  women  in  Paris,  perfervid  art  students,  with 
untidy  hair,  who  knew  the  slang  of  the  Latin  quarter  and 
who  could  prattle  of  symbolism  while  mixing  cocktails ; 
young  French  girls,  whose  imposed  simplicity  hid  the 
wonderful  married  women  they  were  to  be ;  English  girls 
whose  simplicity  was  as  congenital  as  their  sailor-hats, 
a  lifelong  accessory.  But  among  them  all  he  had  never 

19 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

known  one  who,  like  Brooke,  combined  the  frankness  of 
the  boy  with  the  charm  of  a  perfectly  feminine  sweetness. 

"Brooke!" 

She  turned. 

"  Of  what  were  you  thinking?  " 

"  Of   what    I    want    to   accomplish   next   year.     I, 

He  took  her  hand  in  a  tight  grasp. 
"  Let  us  not  talk  of  work  just  now.     I  want  my 
answer." 


20 


CHAPTER   III 

MARGARET  ERSKINE,  looking  at  the  cards  which  the 
maid  had  brought  to  her,  had  a  vision  in  the  same 
instant  of  her  growing  value  in  the  Trenthampton  sum- 
mer colony  as  the  mother  of  Robert.  The  expression  of 
amusement  had  only  just  faded  from  her  face  when  she 
entered  the  low,  old-fashioned  drawing-room  to  greet  the 
guests  who  were  calling  upon  her  for  the  first  time,  Mrs. 
Winwood  and  her  daughter,  Olivia. 

The  wife  of  the  capitalist,  gowned  to  express  her 
opulent  matronhood,  rustled  forward,  her  face  beaming 
vicariously  with  the  thought  of  the  pleasure  she  must  be 
bestowing.  Contrasted  with  her,  Margaret  had  the  look 
of  a  maternal  sibyl,  or  of  a  spirit  delicately  shadowed 
and  paled  by  its  reserve  and  its  exclusion.  Olivia,  re- 
membering Robert's  face,  saw  it  elucidated,  as  it  were, 
in  the  features  of  this  stately  woman  who  greeted  her 
without  effusion,  yet  without  coldness.  The  girl  herself 
returned  the  greeting  with  a  manner  as  negatively  cour- 
teous as  her  mother's  was  pronounced  and  efflorescent. 
Though,  apparently,  she  saw  only  her  hostess,  she  was 
missing  not  one  detail  of  the  drawing-room  where  wealth 
had  so  little  place  in  determining  the  furniture,  and  pride 
of  ancestry  so  much.  From  the  colonial  portraits  on  the 
walls  to  the  flowered  eighteenth-century  cups  in  which 
Mrs.  Erskine  offered  them  tea,  everything  spoke  of  long 
residence,  of  the  accumulated  memories  and  traditions  of 
an  old  and  honored  family.  The  girl  sighed,  thinking, 
not  without  a  smile  coupled  with  the  sigh,  how  recent 
was  her  mother's  knowledge  of  Chippendale. 

21 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  You  must  surely  come  to  our  little  lawn-party," 
Mrs.  Winwood  was  saying,  with  that  use  of  the  diminu- 
tive which  is  lawful  only  for  those  who  give  Brobding- 
nagian  entertainments.  "  Your  son  has  already  promised 
me  that  he  will  come." 

"  I  go  out  very  little,"  Mrs.  Erskine  said,  "  but  Rob- 
ert, I  am  sure,  will  enjoy  going." 

"  I  hope  you  will  come,"  Olivia  said  earnestly,  her 
serious  eyes  fixed  on  her  hostess's  face. 

Margaret  Erskine,  half  repelled,  yet  half  attracted  by 
the  girl,  wished  that  she  were  alone  with  her,  that  she 
might  have  a  better  opportunity  of  studying  her.  Her 
husband's  interest  in  Olivia  had  aroused  her  curiosity, 
which  Olivia's  bearing  during  this  call  had  strength- 
ened. Whatever  she  was,  she  was  not  commonplace,  and 
she  possessed,  Margaret  divined,  some  unusual  form  of 
strength  which  had  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  the  wealth 
surrounding  her. 

"  You  must  be  mighty  glad  to  have  your  son  back," 
Mrs.  Winwood  said,  slipping  into  the  vernacular  under 
the  cheering  influence  of  her  cup  of  tea.  "  I'd  give  my 
eyes  for  a  big,  handsome  son  like  yours.  Only  they 
always  go  off  and  get  married,  and  then,  like  as  not,  your 
daughter-in-law  wishes  you  under  ground." 

Mrs.  Erskine  laughed. 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  always  happen  according  to  the  comic 
supplement,  does  it?  At  least  you  are  spared  such  a 
possibility,  Mrs.  Winwood." 

The  matron  sighed  heavily.  Flushed  from  her  tea,  her 
big,  soft,  pink  face  looked  like  that  of  a  youngish  St. 
Anne  in  a  Rubens  altar-piece.  Margaret  Erskine  per- 
ceived that  under  her  attempted  society  manner  was  the 
bewildered  innocence  of  a  woman  whose  natural  sim- 

22 


THE    CHOICE 


plicity  is  constantly  overwhelmed  by  the  requirements  of 
great  wealth.  The  mother  was  smothered  by  what  the 
daughter  had  beneath  her  heel. 

"  Well,  the  name  will  perish  with  us,"  she  said,  in  a 
tone  of  resignation,  "  unless  Olivia's  husband  consents 
to  a  hyphen." 

Mrs.  Erskine  was  careful  not  to  smile,  her  sympathy 
with  the  daughter's  probable  embarrassment  being  keen ; 
but  Olivia  seemed  frankly  amused,  though  she  said  noth- 
ing. Her  capacity  for  silence  amounted  10  genius. 

She  waited  patiently  for  her  mother  to  give  the  signal 
for  leave-taking,  which,  after  a  time,  Mrs.  Winwood  did. 
Her  farewells  were  as  deferential  as  her  greetings  had 
been  philanthropic. 

As  they  were  leaving  the  drawing-room  James  Er- 
skine appeared.  The  look  of  fatigue  in  his  face  faded 
as  he  saw  Olivia.  He  shook  her  hand  cordially,  but  he 
could  not  resist  saying,  "  You  are  not  dissecting  us,  I 
hope?" 

"  Can  you  dissect  people  who  are  really  alive  ?  "  she 
answered,  smiling. 

"  If  my  son  were  here  he  would  probably  offer  you 
some  of  our  roses.  Permit  me  to  take  his  place,"  Erskine 
said  gallantly,  disregarding  the  motion  of  the  groom  to 
open  the  carriage  door,  and  leading  the  way  into  the 
garden. 

"  I  promised  to  drive  with  your  father  at  five, 
Olivia,"  her  mother  said,  stepping  heavily  into  the  vic- 
toria ;  "  shall  I  send  the  cart  for  you  ?  " 

"  Father  will  wait  a  few  moments,"  Olivia  answered 
quietly ;  "  Mr.  Erskine  is  being  generous  to  me,  as 
you  see." 

He  was  cutting  the  choicest  roses  and  filling  her  arms 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

with  them.  She  walked  back  to  the  carriage,  holding 
them  closely,  bending  her  cheek  to  their  perfumed  soft- 
ness. She  gave  him  no  other  thanks  but  this  subdued 
delight,  as  if  he  had  presented  her  with  something 
she  had  never  before  possessed.  Erskine  followed  her, 
pleased  as  a  child  by  her  appreciation. 

When  the  carriage  had  driven  off,  Mrs.  Winwood 
spoke  fretfully : 

"  Why  did  you  let  him  rob  himself  when  we've  got 
bushels  of  roses  ?  " 

"  It  gave  him  pleasure,"  Olivia  answered. 

The  pleasure  was  still  in  his  face  as  he  went  up  the 
steps  of  the  porch  to  rejoin  his  wife. 

"  I  was  surprised  when  I  saw  who  your  callers  were," 
he  said.  "  What  do  you  think  of  the  daughter  ?  Is  she 
not  rather  wonderful  ?  " 

Mrs.  Erskine  laughed. 

"  She  is  as  impenetrable  as  an  absolute  monarch. 
The  mother  is  harmless." 

"You  don't  like  them?"  he  said  quickly. 

"  They  are  not  the  kind  of  people  one  either  likes  or 
dislikes.  I  found  them  interesting." 

"  Has  Robert  called  on  them  yet  ?  " 

"  I  think  not." 

"  That  is  hardly  courteous  of  him.  I  thought  Miss 
Winwood  would  be  just  the  woman  to  attract  him." 

"  Do  you  wish  him  to  be  attracted  ?  "  his  wife  said 
significantly. 

He  made  no  answer,  but,  lighting  a  cigar,  began  a 
restless  walk  up  and  down  the  porch.  An  unpleasant 
idea  obtruded  itself  in  Margaret's  mind.  She  was  not 
unaware  of  the  rivalry  between  Winwood  and  her  hus- 
band, but  it  troubled  her  little,  the  Erskine  name  being 

24 


THE    CHOICE 


synonymous  with  solidity  in  citizenship,  in  churchman- 
ship,  in  business.  Even  the  long-dead  scholar  of  the 
house,  the  collector  of  the  library,  which  was  its  special 
glory,  had  been  remembered  for  just  that  quality  in  his 
work.  The  first  doubt  of  her  husband's  strength  arose 
in  her  now.  Could  it  be  possible  that  he  thought  of  a 
marriage  between  Olivia  and  Robert  as  a  bulwark  against 
impending  disaster?  She  dismissed  the  idea  as  unjust  to 
him.  He  must  have  discerned  in  Olivia  Winwood  some- 
thing which  enabled  him  to  draw  a  clear  breath  beyond 
the  choking  golden  mist  which  still  obscured  the  girl 
from  her  own  eyes. 

Questions  rose  to  her  lips,  but  she  repressed  them. 
She  had  refrained  so  long  from  intrusions  that  she  seemed 
destined  to  remain  permanently  in  the  outer  circle  of  her 
husband's  life.  Since  Robert  had  gone  to  college  their 
middle  age  together  had  become  like  the  blank  pages  at 
the  end  of  a  book,  suggesting  nothing  more  than  the 
closing  of  the  volume. 

The  silence  between  them  was  broken  by  Robert's 
voice  hailing  them  gaily  from  the  garden  path.  As  he 
came  toward  them  his  manly  beauty  seemed  heightened, 
as  in  a  portrait.  His  mother,  who  had  watched  him 
closely  since  his  return,  with  the  searching  analysis  of 
the  true  maternal  instinct,  divined  what  he  had  come  to 
tell  them. 

When  he  came  up  on  the  porch  he  looked  from  one 
to  the  other  of  his  parents,  to  be  sure  of  their  sympathy 
before  he  spoke,  yet  he  felt  that  they  knew  already.  His 
love  for  Brooke  was  part  of  the  continuity  of  his  life, 
of  whatever  it  held  of  comely  order  and  legitimate 
ambition. 

James  Erskine,  feeling  instinctively  that  romance  was 
3  25 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

no  longer  in  the  air,  but  had  become  a  fact  as  definite  as 
the  recent  opening  of  his  son's  office,  was  conscious  of  a 
vague  annoyance.  Ignoring  this  invasion  of  happiness, 
he  said : 

"  I  was  asking  your  mother  if  you  had  called  yet  on 
Olivia  Winwood." 

"  No,"  he  answered  carelessly,  "  I  have  had  other 
things  to  think  of.  I'll  go  before  the  lawn-party." 

His  eyes,  always  betraying  him  when  his  other  fea- 
tures closed  the  door,  sought  his  mother's.  Their  inter- 
changing smile  brought  the  question  to  her  lips: 

"  Did  you  see  Brooke  this  afternoon  ?  " 

"  I  did,  and  she  has  said  '  yes '  at  last." 

"  You  mean — "  his  father  asked. 

"  That  we  are  engaged." 

His  mother  drew  his  head  down  and  kissed  him.  She 
was  very  fond  of  Brooke,  and  she  had  had  the  usual 
maternal  dread  that  under  the  eccentric  laws  of  attrac- 
tion Robert  might  present  her  with  a  daughter-in-law 
who  would  have  to  be  endured  rather  than  loved. 

Then  they  both  turned  to  James  Erskine,  whose 
silence  seemed  vaguely  and  inexplicably  hostile,  and 
whose  expression  of  anxiety  had  deepened. 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me,  father?  " 

Robert's  voice  was  reproachful.  "  I've  always  thought 
Brooke  a  favorite  of  yours,"  he  added. 

"  Brooke's  a  lovely  girl,  but  haven't  you  been  in  some- 
what of  a  hurry?  " 

"  Why,  James,  they  were  babies  together,"  Mrs.  Er- 
skine said  with  a  touch  of  impatience.  "  Do  you  expect 
a  courtship  in  a  previous  incarnation  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  knew,  father,  that  I've  always  wanted 
to  marry  Brooke,"  Robert  said  with  genuine  astonish- 

26 


THE    CHOICE 


ment  in  his  voice.  "  I  asked  her  before  I  went  away,  but 
she  wouldn't  consent  to  an  engagement  then.  She  has 
not  been  easy  to  win." 

Erskine  puffed  at  his  cigar  for  a  few  moments  in 
silence. 

"  Is  she  willing  to  wait  until  you've  built  up  a  prac- 
tise ? "  he  said  at  last.  "  I  can't  help  you  out,  you 
know." 

A  strained  quality  in  his  voice,  coupled  with  his 
words,  gave  Robert  the  sensation  of  meeting  a  new  per- 
son. It  was  unlike  his  father  to  lay  emphasis  on  the 
financial  side  of  a  question.  He  had  always  been  gen- 
erous, as  if  the  fruit  of  difficult  work  and  of  large 
enterprises  could  only  be  generosity,  or  a  kind  of  wise 
indifference  to  the  incident  of  wealth ;  and  that  his  father 
was  wealthy  he  had  never  doubted,  though  of  the  details 
of  his  money-earning  he  knew  as  little  as  his  mother. 
Business  had  never  interested  him,  his  general  concep- 
tion of  it  being  a  Babel  in  which  the  man  who  shouted 
loudest  would  be  heard  the  farthest.  He  had  never  even 
inquired  if  his  father's  voice  were  weak. 

"  Of  course  Brooke  is  willing  to  wait.  You  know  I 
will  not  marry  until  I  can  provide  for  my  wife,"  he  an- 
swered. "  I  did  not  know  you  were  such  a  good  Amer- 
ican, father,"  he  added  with  a  jesting  accent,  lest  the 
words  should  betray  a  sting. 

"  My  dear  boy,  if  we're  not  good  Americans,  we  have 
to  be  poor  Americans.  It's  the  devil's  choice  the  coun- 
try's offering  us.  As  to  your  marriage,  I  have  no  objec- 
tion to  offer." 

Robert  flushed. 

"  That  is  only  negative  commendation.  You  don't 
know  Brooke,  evidently,"  he  said. 

27 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

His  mother  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm.  From  Rob- 
ert's childhood  she  had  been  interpreter  between  father 
and  son. 

"  It  is  not  Brooke,  but  her  family " 

"  Charles  Peyton's  indifference  to  material  things  is 
the  true  poet's,"  Erskine  interrupted.  "  Why,  he  dupli- 
cates Coleridge  in  everything  but  the  divine  spark." 

Robert  laughed. 

"  Yes,  and  you've  played  Providence  with  the  rest. 
Aren't  you  godfather  to  two  of  the  children?  " 

A  grim  smile  stole  over  Erskine's  face. 

"  I  only  promised  to  look  after  their  spiritual  wel- 
fare. What  I  did,  I  did  for  Ursula  Peyton's  sake." 

Mrs.  Erskine  took  Robert's  hand  in  hers. 

"  Your  father  is  afraid  that  Charles  Peyton  might 
throw  burdens  on  you  in  the  future  that  you  ought  not 
to  carry." 

"  Oh,  if  that  is  all,"  he  began,  then  stopped  abruptly, 
because  the  thought  again  intruded  itself  that  such  an 
objection  seemed  foreign  to  his  father's  nature — to  his 
father's  large,  comfortable  ways  of  living  and  thinking. 
"  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  take  such  a  risk,"  he  went  on 
after  a  moment's  pause ;  "  but  you  seem  inexplicably 
unenthusiastic  over  my  engagement." 

His  father  was  silent.  His  mother  put  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders,  and  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  know  we  are  glad !  " 

He  could  not  doubt  the  sincerity  of  her  voice,  nor 
the  blessing  in  the  kiss  she  gave  him.  She  held  him 
close  a  moment,  then  excusing  herself  on  the  plea  of  a 
domestic  engagement  she  left  the  room,  thinking  that  if 
the  cause  of  her  husband's  opposition  were  what  she 
divined  he  would  be  more  likely  to  confide  it  to  Robert 

28 


THE    CHOICE 


in  her  absence.  In  their  family  group  the  third  person 
had  always  rendered  free  discussion  difficult. 

When  she  was  gone,  James  Erskine  turned  to  his  son 
with  an  apologetic  look  in  his  face. 

"  I've  had  a  good  deal  on  my  mind  lately,  Robert," 
he  began,  then  hesitated,  as  if  seeking  the  aid  of  a  ques- 
tion to  continue. 

But  Robert  did  not  speak,  suddenly  occupied  with  an 
unfamiliar  idea.  His  father,  misinterpreting  his  silence, 
said  with  a  note  of  propitiation : 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  to  marry  a  girl  you've  known 
all  your  life.  It  doesn't  often  happen  that  way." 

The  young  man's  face  was  grave,  his  eyes  troubled. 
He  did  not  know  just  how  to  open  the  subject  now  in 
complete  possession  of  him,  obscuring  even  the  light  that 
an  hour  since  he  had  seen  dawn  in  a  woman's  eyes.  Yet 
he  must  speak  of  it,  must  know  that  it  was  the  cause  of 
his  father's  disapproval. 

At  last  he  said : 

"  Father,  you  spoke  the  other  day  of  this  Winwood 
as  a  man  who  is  trying  to  undersell  you.  I  didn't  pay 
much  attention  then — but  is  it  true?  Does  he — are  you 
in  any  difficulty?  " 

"  What  makes  you  ask  ?  "  Erskine  said,  avoiding  his 
eyes,  yet  relieved  by  the  question,  as  if  his  burden  were 
already  shared. 

"  Your  attitude  toward  my  marriage.  I  knew  it 
could  be  only  one  thing.  Is  the  business  all  right  ?  " 

Erskine  hesitated. 

"  No,  Robert,"  he  said,  "  it's  all  wrong." 


29 


CHAPTER   IV 

ROBERT'S  brilliant,  tyrannical  wooing  had  given 
Brooke  the  sensation  of  being  caught  up  upon  the  wings 
of  a  heaven-soaring  power.  Earth  retreated,  and  with 
it  the  problems  that  she  had  looked  upon  as  obstacles  to 
an  empyrean  flight.  He  had  left  her  no  time  for  delib- 
eration, appealing  insistently  to  that  side  of  her  nature 
which  was  his  by  long  association. 

Her  father  received  the  news  of  her  engagement  with 
a  quotation  which,  repeated  in  his  cold,  beautifully  modu- 
lated voice,  was  like  the  actual  perfume  of  violets  in  the 
room.  Her  mother,  removed  from  such  conceits  of 
scholarship  by  the  gulf  of  the  nursery,  held  her  for  a 
moment  in  a  silent  embrace,  cheek  pressed  against  cheek. 

The  third  person  whom  she  told  of  her  engagement 
was  Dr.  Gorton.  She  went  alone  one  afternoon  to  the 
old  dwelling,  half  manor,  half  farmhouse,  which  crowned 
one  of  the  hills  above  Trenthampton.  Here  he  had  lived 
for  sixty  years  in  a  patriarchal  simplicity  of  existence 
which  was  saved  from  narrowness  by  the  breadth  of  his 
intellectual  interests. 

The  office  was  not  in  the  homestead,  but  in  a  little 
stone  house  covered  with  ivy,  and  resembling  a  porter's 
lodge,  which  stood  near  the  carriage-drive  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  gate.  Here  the  dominant  genius  of  the 
place  had  written  his  books  and  pursued  his  experiments. 
As  children  Brooke  and  Robert  had  rarely  ventured 
across  its  solemn  threshold,  and  even  now  a  touch  of 
the  old  awe  was  upon  Brooke  as  she  went  up  the  stone 

30 


THE    CHOICE 


flagging  between  the  tall  lilac  bushes.  The  very  odor 
of  the  garden  roses  penetrated  to  the  deep  places  of  her 
spirit.  Far  away,  and  long  ago,  was  the  magic  of  child- 
hood, yet  a  glamour  was  in  her  eyes  which  recalled  the 
pristine  gold. 

She  paused  in  the  walk  to  feel  the  stillness  all  about 
her,  broken  only  at  intervals  by  a  bird-note  coming  from 
some  depth  of  azure  or  emerald.  The  sentiment  of  places 
had  always  been  strong  in  her,  so  that  she  remembered 
the  very  angle  at  which  a  bar  of  sunlight  crossed  a 
favorite  room  or  the  nodding  of  a  rose  in  her  path. 

Through  the  little,  thick  panes  of  glass,  oddly  irides- 
cent, she  saw  the  white  head  of  Dr.  Corton  bending  over 
his  desk.  In  another  moment  he  had  risen  and  was 
coming  to  meet  her,  both  hands  outstretched.  She  fol- 
lowed him  into  his  cell  of  an  office,  where  the  marble 
bust  of  Apollo,  stained  yellow  with  time,  still  presided 
over  the  worn  furniture.  The  room  was  filled  with  a 
greenish  light,  the  reflection  of  the  sun  on  the  broad 
lawn. 

"  What  have  you  come  to  tell  me?  " 

A  look  of  joy  lighted  her  face. 

"  You  see  that  I  have  come  to  tell  you  great  news." 

"  How  could  I  help  seeing !  You  walked  like  a 
princess." 

"  Robert  and  I  are  engaged." 

He  gazed  at  her  with  the  searching  look  of  old  age 
that  has  witnessed  the  whole  of  life,  and  in  whom  the 
scouts  of  experience  have  become  at  last  the  cohorts  of 
wisdom.  Signs  of  glad  emotion  were  in  his  face,  as  of 
some  inner  Nunc  Dimittis.  He  had  always  looked  upon 
his  godson  and  upon  Brooke  as  in  a  peculiar  sense  the 
children  of  his  spirit,  destined  to  understand  eventually 

31 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

his  own  far-reaching  designs  and  to  carry  on  his  work. 
Austerity  of  life,  fervor  of  labor,  intensity  of  thought, 
had  been  the  threefold  cord  which  had  bound  alike  his 
youth  and  his  old  age,  and  with  which  he  now  wished  to 
bind  these  young  souls. 

"  This  is  what  I  desired.  This  is  good  news.  I  was 
afraid  Robert  might  marry  a  stupid  woman  or  a  doll,  as 
men  of  brains  sometimes  do.  You'll  help,  not  hinder, 
him  in  his  work." 

She  laughed. 

"  I  can  at  least  keep  his  house  well." 

"  You'll  do  more  than  that.  I'll  train  you  both  to 
carry  out  certain  ideas  of  mine.  Never  forget,  Brooke, 
that  Robert  is  a  member  of  the  greatest  profession  in 
the  world." 

"  I  will  pray  to  St.  Luke  for  him,  godfather." 

"  When  will  you  marry  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  We'll  have  to  begin  in  a  simple  way ; 
but  then,  fortunately,  our  tastes  are  simple.  A  cabin  in 
the  wilderness  would  suit  us  if  it  were  well  stocked  with 
books." 

"  And  your  writing  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  on  with  it,  but  I  have  given  up  the  idea 
of  living  in  the  city.  When  the  summer  is  over  I'll  settle 
down  to  work,  though,"  she  added  with  a  smile.  "  I  am 
afraid  another  writer  in  the  house  will  compel  a  massacre 
of  the  innocents.  Poor  mother  is  almost  driven  to  drug 
them  as  it  is." 

"  Don't  wait  too  long  to  marry.  Time  is  always  a 
traitor." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  married  too  soon.  I  like  this 
pause." 

"  Well,  when  you  do  marry,  make  your  life  together 
32 


THE    CHOICE 


wide  and  social  and  inclusive.  Robert  will  not  know  he 
is  married  then,  and  when  a  man  doesn't  know  that,  he 
is  a  happy  man.  Now  come  with  me  to  the  house;  I 
have  something  for  you." 

She  followed  him  along  the  little  graveled  path  lead- 
ing to  the  fine  old  dwelling,  empty  for  half  a  century 
of  the  graciousness  of  family  life.  He  left  her  sitting 
in  the  quaint  parlor.  Through  the  gloom,  the  portraits 
of  his  wife  and  child,  stiff  figures,  paled  with  age,  looked 
down  upon  her.  In  a  corner  the  tarnished  gilt  of  a 
harp,  mute  for  innumerable  years,  caught  the  light  from 
a  near-by  window.  A  feeling  of  depression  came  over  her, 
as  if  she  were  really  in  the  presence  of  the  dead.  She 
longed  for  the  "  green  felicity  "  of  the  outside  world. 

Dr.  Corton  was  gone  a  long  time.  When  he  returned 
he  had  in  his  hand  several  old-fashioned  jewel-cases. 

"  These  were  Isabel's,  but  they  are  yours  now — your 
betrothal  gift.  Some  of  the  stones  are  very  beautiful, 
though  the  settings  are,  of  course,  old-fashioned." 

Brooke  touched  them  with  hesitating,  reverent  fingers, 
suddenly  conscious  of  the  part  they  had  played  in  a  ro- 
mance long  removed  from  earth. 

"  You  like  them  ?  "  he  said  in  a  pleased  voice. 

He  made  her  sit  down  and  take  the  cases  in  her  lap. 
The  absent  expression  of  his  face  told  her  that  he  had 
gone  far  into  the  past.  After  a  time  he  went  to  a  book- 
case, and,  taking  from  it  a  volume  of  Longfellow,  began 
to  read  aloud,  but  in  an  undertone  as  if  to  himself,  the 
translation  of  Pfizer's  "  Two  Locks  of  Hair."  The  jewels 
dropped  from  Brooke's  hands  as  she  listened,  and  into 
the  past  she  went  with  him.  When  he  had  finished,  he 
said  abruptly: 

"  Don't  look  that  way.  You  are  going  to  be  happy." 
33 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  I  am  happy,"  she  answered ;  "  but  I  sometimes 
fear  it." 

He  was  conscious  as  she  spoke  of  the  two  genera- 
tions which  separated  him  from  her.  Wholesome  as  her 
nature  was,  she  was  not  wholly  free  from  the  modern 
self-consciousness  which  is  always  ready  with  its  ques- 
tion. He  was  glad  that  she  had  become  engaged  to 
Robert  before  she  had  had  time  to  destroy  feeling  with 
analysis. 

She  was  replacing  the  jewels  on  their  faded  velvet 
beds  when  the  bell  rang,  and  in  another  moment  the 
housekeeper  ushered  in  Olivia  Winwood.  Brooke,  who 
was  younger  by  five  years  of  life  and  several  centuries 
of  experience  than  Olivia,  had  been  always  somewhat  in 
awe  of  her,  conscious  in  her  presence  that  a  college  cur- 
riculum has  little  to  do  with  a  woman's  real  education. 
But  now  her  engagement  put  her  in  the  van  of  life. 
Only  the  happy  are  conquerors. 

"  Don't  get  up,"  Olivia  said  to  her,  with  a  glance  at 
the  jewels.  "  Dr.  Gorton,  I  am  come  in  behalf  of  my 
father  to  beg  you  that  you  will  not  refuse  his  invitation 
to  the  dinner  next  Wednesday.  Please  say  'yes.'  It 
would  give  him  so  much  pleasure ;  and  your  philanthropy 
is  your  glory,"  she  added  with  a  smile. 

"  Will  you  be  at  the  dinner?  " 

"  If  you  come,  yes ;  otherwise,  no.  I  know  nothing 
of  state  or  county  politics,  and  what  could  I  say  to  these 
worthy  gentlemen!  But  I  have  promised  my  father  to 
play  for  them — rag-time." 

"No  Beethoven?" 

"  If  you  come  it  shall  be  Beethoven." 

"  Yes,  then ;  but  I  will  send  my  formal  acceptance." 

"  Never  mind  that.    Don't  go,  Miss  Peyton." 
34 


THE    CHOICE 


Dr.  Corton  took  the  cases  from  Brooke's  lap. 

"  I  will  send  these  to  you.  Have  you  nothing  to  tell 
Miss  Winwood  ?  " 

Olivia  looked  at  her  expectantly.  Brooke  blushed, 
but  she  met  the  look  with  frank  eyes. 

"  Dr.  Corton  means  my  engagement  to  Robert  Er- 
skine.  It  is  just  being  announced." 

It  seemed  to  Brooke  that  a  shadow  passed  over  Olivia's 
face,  so  faint  that  in  the  same  instant  it  became  part  of 
9  smile — a  smile  which  revealed  nothing  but  its  own 
secrecy. 

Brooke  expected  to  hear  the  usual  congratulation,  but 
Olivia  said  not  a  word.  Yet,  curiously  enough,  there 
seemed  no  element  of  rudeness  or  indifference  in  her 
silence. 

"  Don't  you  believe  in  congratulating  people  ? "  Dr. 
Corton  said. 

She  laughed. 

"  Why  should  I  in  this  case  ?  The  traits  of  Miss 
Peyton's  character  will  always  lead  her  to  paradise." 

"  Am  I  so  obviously  predestined  ?  I  prefer  the  world 
outside  of  paradise,"  Brooke  answered  with  a  touch  of 
dignity.  Then  she  took  her  leave,  wondering  why  she 
should  resent  Olivia's  estimate  of  her. 

Unknown  to  her,  Dr.  Corton  shared  her  feeling. 
Despite  the  unassumed  homage  which  Olivia  always 
rendered  him,  he  withheld  from  her  his  usual  generous 
response  to  youthful  tribute.  He  did  not  altogether  trust 
her,  believing  her  to  be  of  that  androgynous  spiritual 
species  which  seems  incapable  of  lending  itself  to  any- 
thing but  the  sterilities  of  coquetry,  yet  possessing  the 
power  of  the  north  to  draw  human  currents.  He  was 
ready  to  abandon  this  theory  should  contradictory  evi- 

35 


THE     PORT    OF    STORMS 

clence  arise,  for  he  did  no  person  the  injustice  of 
a  label. 

"  My  godchildren  have  made  me  very  happy  by  their 
engagement,"  he  said. 

"  I  have  only  met  Dr.  Erskine  once,"  Olivia  replied ; 
"  but  Miss  Peyton  seemed  to  me  too  original  a  girl  to 
marry  early." 

"  All  women  should  marry  early.  An  unmarried 
woman  has  no  hold  on  the  facts  of  life." 

"  I  knew  I  was  limited,"  Olivia  murmured,  "  but  I 
did  not  know  to  what  degree.  Marriage  must  certainly 
be  a  broadening  experience." 

"  It  is  not  an  experience,"  he  answered  testily.  "  It 
is  life  or  death." 

"  To  certain  women,  yes." 

"  The  best  type." 

His  words  aroused  in  her  a  vague  envy.  To  possess 
Brooke's  clarity  of  nature  would  be  to  rest  from  obscure 
tumults.  Many  persons  had  followed  Olivia,  but  not  to 
the  stars.  No  one  loving  her  had  ever  looked  above  her 
eyes.  In  a  lightning  flash  of  retrospect  she  saw  only 
kneeling  figures — and  despised  them. 

"  It  is  singular  that  a  man  should  care  for  a  girl  he 
has  known  all  his  life,"  she  said. 

"  A  splendid  foundation  for  marriage." 

"  If  he  know  his  own  heart,  yes." 

"  If  he  doesn't,"  Dr.  Gorton  answered  with  a  per- 
ceptible curtness  of  manner,  "  no  one  else  can  assist  him 
to  that  knowledge." 

Olivia  laughed. 


CHAPTER  V 

ROBERT  called  at  "  The  Towers "  unwillingly,  and 
was  relieved  to  find  neither  mother  nor  daughter  at  home. 
Since  his  father  had  confided  his  business  troubles  to 
him  he  had  conceived  a  dislike  for  the  Winwoods  which 
amounted  to  repugnance.  He  would  have  absented  him- 
self from  the  lawn-party,  but  was  deterred  by  the  obvious- 
ness of  the  act. 

He  and  Brooke  walked  up  together  through  the  bril- 
liance of  a  July  afternoon  to  the  entrance  of  the  park, 
the  great  gate,  with  its  interlacing  of  heraldic  roses  and 
lions,  suggesting  a  transatlantic  order  of  society.  On 
the  way  they  jested  over  the  wretched  rich,  and  all  their 
losses,  bringing  the  sweet  impertinence  of  youth,  liber- 
ated by  love  from  the  domination  of  material  things,  to 
judge  of  the  gross  and  miserable  state  of  the  wealthy. 

But  when  they  entered  the  lovely  grounds,  where 
wealth  had  taken  the  place  of  the  five  hundred  years  that 
adorn  an  English  park,  their  spirits  came  under  the  spell 
of  their  surroundings.  The  art  displayed  in  this  perfect 
imitation  of  an  ancient  heritage  was  so  identified  with 
nature  that  its  triumph  over  the  imagination  was  inev- 
itable. The  features  of  the  landscape  were  blended  in  a 
fine  and  dignified  simplicity,  as  if  one  powerful  soul  and 
will  were  behind  the  effect  obtained.  As  their  half-mile 
of  winding  way  brought  them  within  sight  of  the  main 
entrance  of  the  house  they  were  surprised  by  the  absence 
of  decorations  on  the  lawn,  or  of  any  attempt  to  dazzle 
with  an  effect  of  elaborate  preparation,  as  if  their  hosts 
had  refused  to  gild  what  was  already  perfect. 

37 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

Robert  wondered  over  this  fine  reserve,  remembering 
what  he  had  heard  of  Henry  Winwood's  character.  As 
for  the  mother,  her  personality  was  the  blare  of  a  trum- 
pet. Could  it  be  that  the  daughter  was  strong  enough 
to  guide  the  wills  of  her  parents  ?  The  foreign,  spacious 
beauty  of  these  grounds  was  more  potent  than  an  intro- 
ductory essay  in  arousing  his  curiosity  concerning  Olivia. 

Mrs.  Winwood,  perfectly  gowned,  but  with  a  touch 
of  the  rococo,  which  she  could  not  have  escaped  even  in 
a  nun's  habit,  was  welcoming  the  guests  in  a  high- 
pitched,  friendly,  afternoon-tea  voice  that  awakened 
echoes  in  the  majestic  twilight  behind  her.  She  held 
Robert's  hand  tightly — her  own,  all  jewels  and  soft, 
plump  flesh — while  she  questioned  him  about  his  engage- 
ment with  a  manner  that  seemed  to  imply  resentment  of 
the  fact. 

He  answered  as  best  he  could,  then  turned  to  Olivia. 
She  greeted  him  cordially,  adding,  as  he  was  about  to 
pass  on: 

"  Come  to  me  when  I  am  free,  and  talk  to  me  of 
Paris,  or  of  yourself.  You  are  the  only  person  in  the 
world  who  can  tell  me  just  why  Miss  Peyton  is  to  be 
congratulated." 

The  audacious  logic  of  her  words,  the  touch  of  good- 
humored  mockery  in  her  voice,  gave  him  the  feeling  of 
wishing  to  reread  a  preface. 

"  I  will  come  with  pleasure." 

"  And  meanwhile  ?  "  she  questioned,  as  if  all  time  not 
spent  with  her  must,  of  necessity,  be  an  interlude.  His 
wonder  delayed  his  answer.  If  this  were  egotism,  its 
very  openness  held  a  kind  of  charm. 

"  Meanwhile,  with  your  permission,  I  will  ex- 
plore  " 

38 


THE    CHOICE 


"The  grounds?" 

"  No,  not  the  grounds,  but  your  beautiful  house." 

"  Go  where  you  like,  but  I  warn  you  that  upholsterers 
are  impersonal." 

Her  words  so  exactly  accorded  with  what  was  in  his 
mind  that,  to  her  amusement,  he  flushed  like  a  school- 
boy. But  there  was  no  time  to  reply.  He  gave  his 
place  to  another  guest,  and  went  on,  half  angry,  wholly 
curious. 

The  rooms,  through  which  he  went  in  search  of 
Brooke,  were,  like  the  grounds,  beautiful  as  much  by 
what  they  rejected  as  by  what  they  held.  Their  furniture 
was  characterized  by  that  classic  austerity  which  only 
great  wealth  can  produce  without  an  attendant  effect  of 
harshness. 

He  found  Brooke  in  the  library  bending  over  some 
illuminated  missals. 

"  I  would  have  joined  you  before,  but  the  rooms  de- 
tained me.  Is  it  possible  that  Henry  Winwood  inhabits 
this  house  ?  "  he  said,  lowering  his  voice. 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  surprised.  Could  anything  be 
more  lovely,  more  noble  than  the  effect  of  this  library  ?  " 

"  It  looks  like  a  dwelling  prepared  for  great  souls," 
Robert  said,  the  shadow  of  a  frown  on  his  face.  He 
hated  this  beauty  subduing  him  in  the  house  of  an  enemy. 
Brooke  read  his  thoughts. 

"  And  we,  we  feel  it  just  as  much,"  she  said  impetu- 
ously, "  and  we  can't  express  ourselves  because  we're 
poor." 

Robert  nodded. 

"  What  a  fight  she  must  have  had  to  have  it  all  her 
own  way,"  he  said. 

"You  mean  it's  Olivia's  doing?" 
39 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

He  smiled. 

"  Can  you  imagine  any  other  member  of  the  family 
responsible  for  this  almost  reproachful  beauty?  One 
person,  and  one  only,  really  lives  here." 

"  Of  course  it  is  Olivia,"  Brooke  assented. 

At  that  moment  they  both  turned  at  the  sound  of  a 
heavy  footstep.  Henry  Winwood  was  entering  the  room, 
with  an  air  half  complacent,  half  uneasy,  which  reminded 
Robert  of  certain  Americans  he  had  seen  abroad.  He 
shook  hands  with  Brooke,  who  introduced  Robert  with 
a  pretty  manner  of  unconscious  pride.  Winwood's  keen 
eyes  regarded  him  with  a  not  unkindly  expression. 

"  Why  ain't  you  out-of-doors  ?  "  he  questioned.  "  My 
wife  says  it's  a  lawn-party,  but  most  of  the  folks  seem 
to  be  in  the  house." 

"  These  beautiful  rooms  detained  us,"  Robert  said. 

Winwood  looked  about  him  complacently,  then  settled 
himself,  a  vast  bulk  of  modern  Americanism,  in  a  chair 
of  ancient  Venice  and  crossed  his  hands  on  his  gibbous 
figure. 

"  Well,  the  best  I  can  say  about  'em  is  that  they  ain't 
copies.  Olivia  planned  'em.  You  won't  see  their  like 
in  every  foreign  palace  you're  shown  through." 

"  I  thought  they  were  of  your  daughter's  planning," 
Robert  said,  careless  whether  the  words  held  an  implied 
discourtesy. 

"  I  see  you've  opened  your  office,  Dr.  Erskine.  Are 
you  going  to  have  a  specialty?  Most  young  doctors  do 
nowadays — pays  better." 

As  he  spoke  he  rose,  and  going  to  an  elaborately 
carved  cabinet  took  from  it  a  box  of  cigars. 

"Have  one?  They're  choice — almost  too  choice  for 
a  young  man,"  he  added  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  I 

40 


THE    CHOICE 


always  maintain  that  no  man  under  forty-five  is  ripe 
enough  to  enjoy  a  fine  cigar.  After  that  time  he  has 
something  worth  while  to  forget  while  he  puffs." 

Robert  laughed. 

"  But  the  young  are  at  least  entitled  to  pipe-dreams. 
With  your  permission,  Brooke?  " 

"  Be  sure  you  give  it,  young  lady,  if  you  wish  to  make 
a  model  wife,"  Winwood  interposed,  nodding  his  huge 
head.  "  There  ain't  any  room  in  my  house  too  grand 
to  smoke  in." 

"  I  am  going  to  leave  you  to  your  ecstasy,"  she  said ; 
then,  with  an  odd  look  in  her  clear,  brown  eyes,  she 
added,  turning  to  Winwood: 

"  Don't  teach  Dr.  Erskine  to  forget." 

"  I  won't  keep  your  young  man  long,"  Mr.  Winwood 
answered  literally.  "  If  your  mother's  here,  take  her  to 
see  the  orchids." 

"  I  will  join  you  soon,  Brooke,"  Robert  said,  already 
soothed  by  his  incomparable  cigar  out  of  any  harsh  or 
precipitate  judgment  of  his  host,  who,  between  puffs, 
talked  with  the  robust  intelligence  of  a  man  of  affairs  on 
a  variety  of  subjects,  ranging  from  cattle-breeding  to 
French  wines.  Robert  read  in  his  speech  and  manner 
that  inevitableness  of  will  and  purpose  which  marks  the 
successful  leader,  whether  warrior  or  financier. 

They  were  interrupted  after  a  time  by  the  entrance 
of  Olivia.  As  she  came  into  the  room  she  seemed  to 
interpret  it,  so  well  did  it  blend  with  her  look  of  conscious 
strength,  with  her  beauty,  which  held  no  element  of  the 
obvious. 

"  Well,  have  all  your  guests  arrived  ? "  her  father 
asked,  his  eyes  softening  at  sight  of  her. 

"  All  whom  I  expect,"  she  answered ;  then,  turning 
4  4I 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

to  Robert,  she  said,  "  Why  do  you  stay  here,  when  it  is 
so  beautiful  out-of-doors  ?  " 

"  It  is  so  beautiful  indoors  that  I  miss  nothing,  and 
I  gain  much,"  he  added,  bowing  to  his  host. 

"  Are  you  quite  sincere  ?  My  father  is  not  accus- 
tomed to  a  Parisian  turn  of  speech." 

Henry  Winwood  made  no  comment  on  this  remark, 
seeming  content  with  whatever  estimate  of  him  his 
daughter  chose  to  make.  Robert  was  astonished  at  her 
curious  frankness  which  thus  lifted  the  richly  embroid- 
ered veil  of  the  family's  outward  state,  revealing  its  real 
simplicity  or  poverty  of  life.  Yet  this  frankness  differed 
from  Brooke's  in  being,  he  felt,  the  fruit  of  some  subtle 
design. 

He  met  her  in  the  same  spirit. 

"  Then  I  will  say  that  I  would  like  to  go  into  the 
gardens  with  you." 

"  You  may  come  with  me  for  a  few  moments,"  she 
said,  as  if  granting  him  a  precious  favor.  "  I  will  show 
you  a  favorite  spot  of  mine.  Father,  will  you  please  go 
out  to  our  guests  ?  " 

He  obeyed  her  at  once,  rising  heavily  to  his  feet.  She 
led  Robert  through  a  series  of  rooms  whose  seductive 
beauty  asked  him  to  linger,  and  opened  a  door  upon  a 
garden  shut  in  by  tall  hedges  from  the  rest  of  the  park. 
At  its  far  end  a  terrace  overhanging  a  steep  hill  gave 
the  effect  of  a  miniature  end-of-the-world.  Only  the 
brilliant  blue  sky  intervened  between  it  and  the  distant 
mountains. 

"  This  is  my  own  garden,  a  desert  solitude  unless  I 
will  it  otherwise.  The  most  adventurous  outsider  could 
not  penetrate  its  walls  of  hedges.  Let  us  go  down  to  the 
terrace.  The  view  from  there  is  worth  seeing." 

42 


THE    CHOICE 


She  led  the  way  between  rows  of  old-fashioned,  stately 
garden  flowers,  all  converging  to  a  sun-dial  placed  at  the 
summit  of  a  low  pyramid  of  steps.  Robert  paused  to 
read  the  motto  engraved  upon  it,  "  Time  is  not  for  the 
Free,"  and  smiled,  but  made  no  comment. 

Olivia's  presence  was  interpreting  the  garden  to  him 
as  it  had  the  library,  though  in  the  open  air  all  the 
dreamy  undercurrents  of  thought  suggested  by  some 
withdrawal  quality  in  her  face  vanished,  and  her  splen- 
did bodily  health  seemed  the  most  obvious  thing  about 
her. 

Nothing  in  this  enclosed  paradise  was  casual  or  un- 
premeditated. The  wide  spaces  of  the  terrace  were  a 
relief  to  the  surfeit  of  flowers  crowding  down  to  its 
edges,  creeping  with  gorgeous  stains  and  splashes  of 
color  over  the  backs  of  its  semicircular  marble  benches, 
old,  and  yellow  as  cream,  filched,  as  their  carvings  be- 
trayed, from  the  long  caress  of  the  sun  of  Italy.  On 
one  of  these  she  seated  herself  in  an  attitude  of  relaxa- 
tion, her  hands,  those  subtle  revealers  of  personality, 
lying  idly  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  distant  moun- 
tains. She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  Robert's  presence. 

He  was  at  once  piqued  and  amused  by  her  oblivious 
manner.  He  wondered  if  she  refused  to  be  conventional 
just  because  life  might  so  easily  become  a  tissue  of  lies 
about  her. 

He  stole  a  glance  at  her.  The  poise  of  her  head,  her 
impassive  dignity,  her  look  of  repose  without  insensi- 
tiveness,  recalled  to  his  mind  some  portrait  of  the  High 
Renaissance. 

He  waited  for  her  to  speak.  Silences  were  never  dis- 
concerting to  him,  and  his  natural  reticence  had  been 
increased  by  the  requirements  of  his  profession. 

43 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  I  need  not  ask  you  if  you  are  homesick  for  Paris," 
she  said  at  last ;  "  two  years  there  guarantee  that." 

He  smiled. 

"  How  did  you  know  I  was  homesick  for  Paris?  It's 
true  enough !  " 

"  I  judge  by  what  my  six  months  there  did  for  me." 

"  Of  course  you  saw  a  very  different  side,"  Robert 
said.  "  Hospital  wards  are  much  alike  everywhere.  I 
imagine  you  trailed  clouds  of  glory  down  the  Champs 
Elysees." 

She  laughed. 

"  But  you  had  your  holidays." 

"  Ah,  didn't  I ! — those  holidays !  Do  you  know  the 
odd  corners  ?  " 

He  was  away  in  an  instant — cafes  and  gargoyled 
shadowy  places  directly  ahead  in  the  rich  perspective. 
She  led,  but  he  thought  she  followed. 

While  he  talked  of  the  well-beloved  she  watched  his 
face,  noting  the  square  chin,  the  eyes  too  visionary  for 
a  physician,  all  the  contradictions  of  the  irregular,  strong, 
mobile  features.  The  news  of  his  engagement,  coming 
sharply  on  the  impression  gained  at  her  first  meeting  with 
him,  had  roused  in  her  a  vague  annoyance,  as  if  he  had 
played  false  to  that  memory  of  Montmartre.  She  had 
been  too  often  remembered,  too  often  etched  in  iron  on 
heavy  hearts,  not  to  believe  that  what  had  been  must 
always  be.  This  deviation  from  the  normal  rule  filled 
her  with  resentment. 

"  But  I  am  keeping  you — "  he  said,  breaking  off 
suddenly. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  grave  eyes. 

"  You  must  not  go  until  you  tell  me  why  Miss  Pey- 
ton is  to  be  congratulated !  " 

44 


THE    CHOICE 


There  was  laughter  in  her  voice,  contradicting  the 
seriousness  of  her  expression.  For  a  moment  he  was 
disconcerted. 

"  What  impossible  answer  do  you  expect  to  such  a 
question  ?  " 

"  It  Is  a  reasonable  question.  Who  else  can  know  if 
you  do  not  ?  " 

He  smiled  grimly. 

"  I  admit  that  your  logic  is  sound.  You  can  con- 
gratulate Miss  Peyton,  then,  on  her  intimate  knowledge 
of  me.  We  have  known  each  other  from  childhood.  My 
failings  are  an  old  story  to  her." 

"  And  your  virtues  ?  "  she  said,  a  gleam  of  mischief 
in  her  eyes. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  If  I  possess  any,  the  same  advantage  holds  good." 

She  was  silent,  pondering  the  question  apparently  as 
if  it  were  a  remote  theory,  wholly  impersonal. 

"  What  have  you  made  of  your  use  of  the  scalpel, 
Miss  Winwood,  if  I  may  inquire  ?  " 

"  I  was  only  wondering  if  a  knowledge  of  failings 
and  virtues  were  necessary  to  happiness." 

"  Did  I  say  it  was  ?  " 

"  That  was  your  ground  for  congratulation,  was  it 
not  ? — or  did  I  misunderstand  ?  " 

The  upward  glance  of  her  eyes  teased  him.  He  felt 
strangely  impatient  of  her  analysis,  impatient  of  having 
been  led  into  a  discussion  with  her  that  seemed  solely 
for  her  amusement. 

"  What  is  necessary  to  happiness,  if  I  may  ask  a 
question  in  my  turn  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  strange  question  for  you  to  ask,  who  are 
possessed  of  it,"  she  said  in  a  musing  voicej  her  face 

45 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

going  again  into  shadow,  as  if  she  had  passed  under 
some  archway  of  the  mind. 

"  But  what  would  you  say?  "  he  insisted. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Let  us  talk  about  the  view." 

She  leaned  back  on  the  marble  bench,  half  closing  her 
eyes,  with  a  look  of  passive  joy  over  the  beauty  before 
her  that  obliterated  any  intellectual  interest  she  may  have 
had  in  their  conversation.  This  sudden  transition  piqued 
his  curiosity,  yet  he  was  vaguely  resentful  of  being  curi- 
ous, as  he  resented  all  feeling  that  did  not  converge  to- 
ward Brooke.  He  felt  restless,  half  unwilling  to  remain. 

Turning  her  head,  she  read  the  look  in  his  face,  and 
rose. 

"  I  am  detaining  you,  and  neglecting  my  guests,"  she 
said  with  a  caressing  graciousness  that  made  her  in  that 
instant  wholly  feminine.  "  You  should  be  with  Miss 
Peyton.  Should  I  offend  you  if  I  said  she  is  charming? 
I  trust  you  and  she  will  come  often  here  this  summer. 
I  am  very  lonely." 

The  wistfulness  in  her  voice  seemed  almost  incredible 
to  him.  Was  she  an*  actress,  he  asked  himself,  or  did 
this  splendor  of  setting  really  leave  her  lonely,  as  queens 
are?  In  that  hour  she  took  hold  of  his  imagination,  but 
as  yet  only  as  a  picture  or  poem  might. 

He  found  Brooke  in  a  distant  part  of  the  grounds. 
The  girl  raised  her  head  with  an  eager,  expectant  look 
as  he  approached,  but  she  asked  no  questions. 

He  felt  a  sudden,  keen  joy  in  being  again  with  her; 
was  glad  in  that  instant  that  he  had  acted  quickly  on  his 
return  from  Paris,  making  himself  wholly  hers.  The 
enclosed  garden,  with  its  wealth  of  color  and  perfume, 
seemed  in  retrospect  a  prison. 

46 


THE    CHOICE 


He  told  her  of  his  conversation  with  Henry  Winwood. 

"  He  is  not  the  pretender  I  expected,"  he  commented. 
"  The  mother  sums  up  the  artificialities  of  the  family,  but 
she  seems  good-hearted." 

"  Have  you  seen  Olivia  since  she  greeted  you?" 

"  I  have  just  come  from  her,"  he  said,  glad  of  the 
opening.  "  She  was  showing  me  a  favorite  view  of  hers." 

"Did  she  like  you?" 

"  What  a  question !    How  should  I  know  ?  " 

"  I  want  her  to,  that's  all." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  Brooke,  you  are  a  child  of  light.  I  give  my  con- 
science into  your  keeping." 

"  Keep  your  own  conscience,  m'lord,"  she  answered 
gaily.  "  I  will  have  enough  to  do  to  keep  your  heart." 


47 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHEN  Robert  and  his  mother  returned  from  the 
garden-party  both  were  in  that  silent  mood  which  sug- 
gests the  harvesting  of  what  was  most  significant  in  a 
past  occasion.  As  they  went  up  on  the  porch  Erskine 
came  out  to  meet  them,  his  evening  paper  in  one  hand, 
his  inevitable  cigar  in  the  other. 

"  James,  your  son,  I  fear,  is  dazzled  by  our  neighbors 
on  the  hill,"  Mrs.  Erskine  said,  sinking  into  a  chair  with 
a  sigh  of  comfort.  "  He  went  forth  a  stern  young  judge. 
He  returns  with  the  artist  in  him  uppermost.  To  be  just 
in  this  world  you  should  have  no  esthetic  instincts,  Rob- 
ert. But  I  don't  blame  you,"  she  added ;  "  such  beauty 
would  entangle  a  Jonathan  Edwards." 

"  And  I  am  no  Puritan !  It  is  certainly  a  triumphant 
sort  of  place." 

"  They  hide  the  gilt  frame  well,"  his  mother  com- 
mented with  a  dry  accent.  She  was  watching  her  hus- 
band's face,  in  which  the  lines  of  care  had  deepened  at 
the  mention  of  the  Winwoods.  She  stole  a  glance  at 
Robert,  and  saw  that  he  was  regarding  his  father  with 
an  anxious,  questioning  look.  After  a  time  she  rose  and 
sauntered  down  into  the  garden,  saying  that  she  wished 
to  inspect  her  flower-beds. 

"  Father,"  Robert  said  when  they  were  alone,  "  why 
don't  you  sell  out  to  Winwood  if  it's  hopeless  to  fight 
him?  You  can  fight  a  trust  no  more  than  you  can  an 
octopus.  They're  both  bloodsuckers." 

"  Give  up  the  business  ?  "  Erskine  said  impatiently. 
48 


THE    CHOICE 


"  What  could  I  do  then  ?  I  am  neither  old  nor  young 
enough  to  be  idle." 

"  You  could  enjoy  life  after  all  these  years  of  work." 

"  I  wouldn't  know  how,"  Erskine  said  laconically. 
"  I'm  out  of  practise." 

"Well,  couldn't  you  get  into  something  else  then?" 

"  Learn  a  new  business  at  my  age !  " 

Robert  was  buried  in  thought  for  some  moments; 
then  he  said: 

"  I  wish  I'd  known  this  ten  years  ago.  I  wish  you'd 
put  me  in  the  business." 

"  The  conditions  didn't  exist  ten  years  ago.  You 
don't  regret  having  a  profession,  do  you  ? "  he  added, 
looking  searchingly  at  his  son. 

"  Regret  it?  No,  indeed!  But  I  am  impatient  of  the 
slow  process  it  will  have  to  be.  I  am  keen  to  help  you 
out,  to  get  you  beyond  the  reach  of  Winwood's  claws. 
The  thought  that  he  was  on  your  scent  spoiled  the  after- 
noon for  me." 

"You  would  have  enjoyed  yourself  otherwise?" 

"  Frankly,  yes.  They  are  an  interesting  family.  By 
the  way,  are  you  going  to  Winwood's  stag  dinner?  He 
invited  me  this  afternoon." 

"  I  was  about  to  decline,  but  if  you  think  of  going 
I'll  accept." 

"  Let  us  go  for  the  bravado  of  it.  It  will  stop  peo- 
ple's talking.  I  wish  I  had  settled  in  the  city,"  he  added. 
"  I  think  I  could  do  more  for  you  there." 

Erskine  did  not  reply.  Proud  as  he  was  of  Robert's 
record,  he  regarded  it  as  the  unfruitful  brilliance  of 
youth ;  and  he  knew  that  a  certain  kind  of  intellectuality 
hampers  rather  than  aids  a  man  in  making  money.  He 
felt  instinctively  that  Robert  would  be  always  too  much 

49 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

interested  in  the  spectacle  of  life  to  accumulate  a  fortune. 
Even  had  he  entered  business  he  would  not  have  been 
willing  to  exchange  his  preoccupation  with  the  dramatic 
elements  of  existence  for  its  absorptions. 

And  he  was  so  far  right  that  Robert,  despite  his  com- 
prehension of  the  way  matters  stood,  still  saw  the  foot- 
lights between  his  father  and  the  family  at  "  The  Tow- 
ers." Henry  Winwood  amused  him,  Olivia  appealed  to 
his  imagination. 

He  and  Brooke  had  more  than  one  discussion  con- 
cerning her,  in  which  Brooke  had  come  forward  as  her 
champion  against  Robert's  arraignment  of  her  sincerity. 
But  Brooke  always  championed  women  on  general  prin- 
ciples. Herself  of  a  frank,  clear  spirit,  she  refused  to 
believe  in  the  traditional  feline  characteristics  of  her  sex. 
Though  she  was  not  wholly  at  her  ease  with  Olivia,  she 
laid  the  blame  at  her  own  door,  recognizing  that  Olivia's 
maturer  years  and  experience  would  in  themselves  con- 
stitute a  barrier. 

"  Why  is  it,"  Robert  said  to  her  one  day,  "  that  you 
don't  analyze  people  you  really  like?" 

"  It  isn't  because  you  idealize  them,"  she  answered. 
"  I  think  you  see  their  faults  all  the  more  clearly  because 
you  do  care  for  them." 

"  I  see  none  in  you." 

"  You  will  after  you  are  married  to  me,"  she  said  in 
a  tone  of  conviction. 

Robert's  laughter  was  his  only  answer. 

Winwood's  dinner  was  rendered  tolerable  to  James 
Erskine  by  the  presence  of  Dr.  Gorton,  who  sat  at  one 
end  of  the  long  table.  Between  him  and  his  host  was  a 
gathering  of  the  wealthiest  and  most  influential  citizens 

50 


THE    CHOICE 


of  Trenthampton,  a  prosperous  farmer  or  two  being  in- 
cluded among  the  guests.  Winwood  had  a  reputation 
for  democratic  sympathies  which  he  took  care  to  sustain 
by  the  trifles  of  life,  being  shrewd  enough  to  know  that 
a  word  or  a  hand-shake  is  of  more  weight  than  a  prin- 
ciple when  the  people  are  to  be  impressed. 

A  company  of  women,  as  diverse  in  social  training 
and  in  their  interests  as  this  company  of  men,  would 
have  failed  to  preserve  the  moral  unity  of  the  gathering, 
but  the  guests  about  Winwood's  table  became  as  one  man. 
This  blending  was  partly  due  to  the  host's  rough,  good- 
humored  hospitality,  partly  to  the  superlative  quality  of 
the  wines  provided. 

Erskine,  who  was  seated  near  Dr.  Corton,  was  mak- 
ing a  mental  inventory  of  the  symbols  of  his  rival's 
power.  The  gold  and  silver  plate,  the  wines,  the  rare 
flowers,  seemed  little  side  issues  of  Winwood's  magnifi- 
cent thieving,  of  which  a  larger,  more  significant  result 
was  the  deference  of  the  assembled  company.  Excepting 
Dr.  Corton,  Robert  seemed  the  least  impressed  of  all  the 
guests.  What  amusement  James  Erskine  obtained  was 
in  watching  his  son,  who  entered  into  the  occasion  with 
a  delightfully  uncritical  spirit,  and  with  a  keen  pleasure 
and  interest  in  the  whole  company,  which  read  its  mood 
and  carried  his  one  or  two  good  stories  the  length  of  the 
table,  bringing  him  an  approving  glance  from  Winwood. 
Erskine  recognized  these  good  spirits  as  a  long-ago  pos- 
session of  his  own.  He  hoped  that  life  would  not  steal 
them  from  Robert. 

After  dinner  they  went  into  the  drawing-rooms, 
where  coffee  was  to  be  served,  and  where  Mrs.  Winwood 
and  Olivia  awaited  them.  The  mother,  gowned  in  pink 
of  a  shade  which  blended  silk  with  flesh,  looked  younger 

51 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

than  the  daughter,  whose  black  dress,  relieved  only  by 
some  fantastic  gold  ornaments,  put  her  forward  or  back 
a  hundred  years. 

She  did  not  speak  to  Robert  for  some  time,  but  de- 
voted herself  chiefly  to  the  two  farmers.  That  they  were 
being  well  entertained  he  could  judge  from  their  bursts 
of  laughter,  though  Olivia's  face  remained  serious. 

Robert  was  beginning  to  be  impatient  of  her  neglect 
of  him,  when  she  came  to  where  he  stood,  and,  without 
a  word  of  greeting,  said : 

"  They  want  me  to  play.  What  shall  I  play  for 
them?" 

"  May  I  really  choose  ?  " 

"  Anything  you  like." 

"  Some  Russian  music,  then,  with  a  pack  of  wolves 
in  it." 

She  laughed. 

"  I  am  to  play  for  you  alone,  am  I,  of  all  these  men?  " 

"  You  gave  me  my  choice." 

"  Yes,  but  I  told  you  to  choose  for  them,  not  your- 
self." 

He  looked  about  the  company. 

"  How  can  I  tell  whether  they  prefer  two-steps  or 
sonatas?  Play  for  me  this  time." 

"  Very  well,  then." 

She  went  into  the  music-room.  Robert  settled  him- 
self in  a  window-seat  where  he  could  watch  her  hands. 
She  began  a  slow,  complaining  movement,  which  soon 
changed  into  a  wild,  primitive  melody,  bearing  in  its 
heart  the  cry  of  hunger,  or  of  wanderers  through  a  deso- 
late winter  night,  unlit  by  stars.  He  had  what  he  had 
asked  for.  It  was  Russian. 

He  watched  her  face  after  a  time  instead  of  her 
52 


THE    CHOICE 


hands,  but  it  told  nothing.  The  music  told  much.  That 
she  played  with  professional  skill  was  an  incident.  What 
counted  was  this  interpretation. 

When  she  had  finished,  her  mother  came  over  to  her. 

"  Olivia,  I  wish  you'd  play  something  with  a  tune  to 
it.  Your  father's  almost  asleep." 

"All  right,  dear,  I'll  play  a  lullaby." 

"  Now,  don't  tease  me,"  Mrs.  Winwood  said  pathet- 
ically, adding,  as  she  turned  to  Robert,  "  I  can't  bear 
these  queer,  jumbled  things.  They  may  be  stylish,  but 
I  like  something  with  a  tune  to  it. — Don't  you,  Dr. 
Erskine?" 

His  eyes  met  Olivia's,  and  they  both  smiled. 

"  I'll  play  a  spring  song,  mother,"  she  said  coaxingly, 
"  a  little  innocent  spring  song.  Go  and  wake  father  up." 

She  looked  at  her  mother  with  a  tenderness  that 
seemed  to  Robert  beautiful,  considering  how  deep  was 
the  gulf  that  separated  them ;  and  this  tenderness  passed 
into  what  she  played.  He  thought  that  he  would  have 
to  readjust  his  conception  of  her. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"  ARE  you  going  to  Olivia's  again  this  afternoon  ?  " 

Brooke  did  not  answer  her  mother's  question  at  once. 
She  was  standing  before  her  mirror,  adjusting,  with 
boyish  gestures,  a  linen  collar,  above  which  her  brown, 
shapely  throat  rose  in  sharp  contrast.  Despite  the  sever- 
ity of  her  attire,  she  had  a  distinctly  feminine  appear- 
ance. Happiness  had  endowed  her  with  a  new,  delicate 
beauty,  and  had  veiled  and  softened  her  independence  of 
manner. 

"  Robert  and  I  have  wondered  lately  whether  we  are 
pensioners  or  benefactors.  He  was  determined  at  first 
to  mistrust  her,  but  I  think  she  is  breaking  down  his 
doubts.  It  is  difficult  to  refuse  her  invitations  when  she 
makes  us  feel  that  it  is  an  act  of  charity  in  us  to  go 
there  and  enjoy  all  that  luxury." 

"  It  is  strange  that  she  has  been  so  persistent,"  Mrs. 
Peyton  said,  "  even  sending  for  you  when  she  has  house- 
parties." 

Brooke  laughed. 

"  If  we  only  filled  in  gaps,  she  would  know  before 
very  long  that  we  are  a  haughty  pair.  Robert  is  too 
stiff-necked  as  it  is,  but  I  think  he  never  forgets  the 
rivalry  between  his  father  and  hers." 

"  Isn't  it  rather  a  case  of  the  hound  and  the  hare  ?  '* 
Mrs.  Peyton  said. 

Brooke  looked  thoughtful. 

"I  hope  not.  Robert  hasn't  told  me  much,  but  I 
54 


THE    CHOICE 


know  he's  worried.  He  said  to  me  again  yesterday  that 
he  wished  he  had  started  his  practice  in  town." 

"  But  he  is  doing  well." 

"  As  well  as  a  young  physician  could  do  in  as  healthy 
a  place  as  Trenthampton ;  but  he  seems  restless.  Mother," 
she  added  impulsively,  "  I  am  glad  I  never  thought  that 
romance  was  the  whole  of  loving.  It  ought  not  to  be," 
she  said  earnestly,  as  if  defending  the  absent.  "  You 
can't  continue  to  live  on  the  heights  of  the  first  month 
or  two,  unless  you  are  all  poet  or  all  angel." 

Ursula  Peyton  thought  that  Brooke  ought  still  to  be 
treading  the  heights,  but  she  said  nothing  lest  she  should 
seem  to  accuse  Robert  of  leading  the  way  down  to  the 
plains  of  life.  Even  if  he  had,  his  father's  business 
troubles  sufficiently  excused  him. 

When  Brooke  had  finished  dressing  she  stopped  and 
put  her  cool  cheek  for  an  instant  against  her  mother's. 

"  You  look  so  tired,  dear ;  are  you  well  ?  " 

Mrs.  Peyton  smiled. 

"  I've  been  tired  ever  since  you  were  born.  I  think 
my  babies  all  bullied  me.  They  were  all  so  big  and 
strong." 

Brooke  looked  apologetic. 

"  I  am  not  always  going  to  play.  I'll  begin  my  writ- 
ing in  the  fall." 

"  Don't  write,  just  be  happy." 

"  Mother,  you're  a  vagabond !  " 

"  I  know  it.  I'd  have  been  off  to  the  woods  long  ago 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  children." 

"  You  and  I  will  run  away  together  some  day —  Oh, 
Jimmy ! " 

Her  exclamation  was  called  forth  by  the  appearance 
in  the  doorway  of  a  dripping  small  boy,  who  regarded 

55 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

his  mother,  through  the  patches  of  mud  on  his  face,  with 
a  conciliatory  expression. 

"  I  accidentally  fell  into  the  Bates's  horse-pond. 
Carlton  fell  in,  too." 

"  Where  is  Carlton  ? "  Mrs.  Peyton  asked  in  the 
maternal  tone  of  resignation. 

"  I  left  him  in  the  lower  hall  with  strict  orders  not 
to  cry,  because  you  said  father's  getting  something  of! 
to  the  publishers.  He  had  his  mouth  all  open  ready, 
and  I  popped  a  toffy-ball  into  it — the  last  one  I  had,  too," 
he  added  virtuously. 

Mrs.  Peyton  looked  up  at  Brooke  in  despair. 

"  And  I  have  to  get  them  ready  for  a  child's  party 
at  five !  There's  Carlton  crying  now,"  she  added,  rising. 
"  Charles  mustn't  be  disturbed." 

"  I'll  go  down.    I'll  help  you  get  them  ready." 

"  But  you  have  this  engagement." 

"  Robert  will  make  my  excuses." 

She  traced  the  bleating  cry  to  a  dark  corner.  There 
she  found  a  miserable  little  dripping  object,  mud  from 
head  to  foot,  with  a  few  delicate  additions  of  brown  toffy 
streaks  about  the  quivering  mouth.  It  was  so  pitiful 
that,  regardless  of  her  linen  walking-dress,  she  stooped 
down  and  gathered  the  small  bundle  into  her  arms. 

"  Sister's  own  baby !  You  did  go  out  into  the  wide 
world  and  get  hurt,  didn't  you! " 

He  ducked  his  curly  head  under  her  chin,  and  clung 
to  her  with  muddy,  desperate  little  fingers,  glad  to  be 
cuddled,  but  still  sobbing  spasmodically.  As  she  turned 
to  go  up-stairs,  the  library  door  opened,  and  Charles  Pey- 
ton's white,  querulous  face  looked  out. 

"  My  dear  Brooke,"  he  drawled,  "  is  there  no  way  of 
muzzling  those  children?  This  house  has  been  pande- 

56 


THE    CHOICE 


monium  since  six  this  morning.  My  nerves  are  worn 
to  shreds,  and  it  is  most  important  that  I  get  this  book 
off  by  Wednesday." 

A  disrespectful  speech  rose  to  the  girl's  lips,  but  she 
repressed  it.  Her  mother's  example  held  in  check  her 
youthful  resentment. 

"  Mother  is  tired,  too,"  she  answered  gently.  "  But 
I  think  the  worst  is  over.  Carlton  and  Jimmy  and 
Angelica  are  going  to  a  party." 

"  Thank  God !  " 

"  And,  father,  Olivia  sends  word  that  the  wing  of 
the  house  where  the  library  is,  is  always  deserted  in  the 
morning  in  case  you  want  to  consult  any  book.  She 
has  the  edition  of  Novalis  you  were  asking  for,  and  will 
loan  it  to  you.  Ah,  here  is  Robert.  He  might  bring  it 
to  you." 

"  What  is  it,  Brooke?    Aren't  you  going?  " 

He  listened  to  her  explanations  with  an  impatience 
born  of  his  disappointment.  Brooke's  love  had  never 
seemed  so  precious  to  him  as  during  these  weeks  of  their 
mutual  intimacy  with  Olivia. 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  go  without  you.  I'll  wait 
for  you." 

"  No,"  she  said  with  decision.  "  It  would  mean  the 
whole  afternoon.  Father,  tell  Robert  what  books  you 
want." 

Mr.  Peyton  held  open  his  study  door  graciously.  He 
liked  Robert,  who  was  a  good  listener. 

Brooke  toiled  on  up-stairs.  At  the  nursery  door 
stood  Angelica,  shining  from  her  bath,  her  stiff  little 
petticoats  standing  out  like  a  columbine's,  her  air  some- 
what prim  and  superior. 

"  Mother  says  I  can  have  two  pieces  of  cake  if  it's 
5  57 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

sponge,  and  one  if  it's  chocolate — which  would  you  pray 
for?" 

"  I  would  pray  to  be  delivered  from  the  bondage  of 
gluttony,"  Brooke  said,  beginning  to  undress  the  muddy 
rose  of  a  Carlton. 

"  Those  are  college  words,"  said  Angelica  gravely, 
"  and  I  don't  understand  them.  I  will  go  down  and  ask 
papa." 

Brooke  rose  promptly  and  locked  the  door. 

"  There  would  be  no  little  Angelica  if  you  went  down 
at  this  crisis.  Sister  doesn't  want  to  lose  you.  Come 
and  dance  a  pirouette  for  Carlton  while  I  comb  out  his 
curls." 

Robert  went  on  his  way  to  "  The  Towers "  reluc- 
tantly. Much  of  his  satisfaction  in  his  former  calls 
there  was  owing  to  Brooke's  presence,  which  liberated 
him  from  the  haunting  consciousness  that  this  friendship 
with  Olivia  held  within  it  the  seeds  of  future  tumults. 
During  these  last  weeks  she  had  become,  in  a  sense, 
necessary  to  him,  yet  what  she  awakened  in  him  did  not 
place  her  in  rivalry  with  Brooke,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  he  had  never  felt  in  this  way  toward  his  old  play- 
mate. Olivia's  strength  drew  him,  fascinated  him,  some- 
times hurt  him  like  a  wild  play  of  the  imagination  or  the 
spectacle  of  some  tremendous  natural  force.  The  moment 
she  appeared  everything  seemed  possible. 

Half-way  to  the  house  he  encountered  Mrs.  Win- 
wood,  whose  first  enthusiasm  over  him  had  never  waned, 
and  under  whose  artificialities  he  had  discovered  the 
exuberance  of  a  warm-hearted,  uncritical  matron,  puzzled 
by  her  daughter  when  she  was  not  puzzled  by  her  hus- 
band, and  looking,  therefore,  to  strangers  for  some  grasp 
on  the  facts  of  life. 

58 


THE    CHOICE 


She  waved  her  parasol  at  Robert  from  a  little  summer 
bower  on  the  edge  of  a  miniature  lake. 

"  Olivia's  in  the  library.    Where's  your  young  lady  ?  " 

"  A  domestic  crisis  kept  Miss  Peyton  at  home.  You 
know  there's  a  large  family  of  children  there,  all  very 
much  alive." 

"  They  say  it's  unfashionable  to  have  big  families. 
You're  a  bright  young  doctor.  Do  you  think  there's 
any  danger  of  this  race  suicide  they  talk  so  much 
about?" 

Robert  laughed. 

"  I  don't  think  it's  a  physical  matter.  It  seems  to 
me  that  the  deadening  of  the  human  spirit  could  be  the 
only  cause  of  race  suicide." 

"  That's  too  much  for  me/'  Mrs.  Winwood  said  with 
frank  good-humor.  "  You  young  people  are  so  terribly 
deep  these  days.  When  I  was  a  girl  the  sky  was  blue, 
a  rose  was  a  rose,  and  love  was  love.  Now  Olivia  calls 
everything  by  another  name." 

"  The  new  names  don't  bring  us  much  pleasure," 
Robert  answered.  "  You  had  the  best  of  it." 

"  Some  days  I  think  I  had,"  she  said  with  a  fat  sigh. 
"  This  place,  now,  I'm  proud  of — I  ought  to  be ;  it's  the 
biggest  in  the  State — but,"  she  lowered  her  voice  to  the 
key  of  confidence,  "  there  are  times  when  I  just  long  for 
the  old-fashioned  back  yard  I  knew  when  I  was  a  girl, 
with  lilac  bushes  in  it,  and  a  picket-fence  that  the  neigh- 
bors would  hand  ginger-cookies  over,  or  their  first  mince- 
pie  of  the  season." 

Her  earnestness  kept  back  the  smile  from  Robert's 
lips.  As  he  went  on  his  way  he  wondered  whether  any 
sympathy  of  Henry  Winwood's  ever  rendered  less  foreign 
the  setting  of  the  transplanted  wife. 

59 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

The  footman  ushered  him  into  the  library.  In  the 
embrasure  of  a  window  Olivia  sat  reading. 

She  did  not  look  up  for  a  moment,  and  he  had  time 
to  note  the  half-weary  expression  of  her  face,  the  dark- 
ness that  seemed  to  steal  from  under  her  lowered  eyelids. 
She  let  the  book  fall  slowly  to  her  lap,  then  raised  her 
eyes  as  one  who  comes  out  of  a  dream. 

"Where  is  Brooke?" 

"  Tubbing  her  small  brother." 

Olivia  smiled. 

"  She  has  the  maternal  instinct." 

Putting  down  her  book,  she  rose,  and,  crossing  the 
room,  leaned  for  an  instant  against  the  carved  chimney- 
piece,  one  white  hand  grasping  the  stone,  her  cheek 
pressed  to  it.  The  long,  graceful  lines  of  her  figure 
were  silhouetted  sharply  against  the  gloom  of  the  fire- 
place. 

"  I  am  tired  to-day,  and  not  content.  I  warn  you 
that  if  you  stay  you  will  probably  be  companioned  by  a 
mood,  and  not  by  an  attentive  hostess." 

"  Be  yourself  with  me,"  Robert  said,  "  if  you  will 
honor  me  so  far." 

"  You  have  always  had  that  honor,  if  you  consider  it 
one ;  but,"  she  added  with  a  little  laugh,  "  I  don't  remem- 
ber which  self  you  saw." 

"  Perhaps  I  saw  many." 

"  That  is  unfortunate ;  your  impression  will  be  con- 
fused." 

"  It  is  for  you  to  clear  it." 

"  I  refuse  to  be  responsible  for  your  impressions,"  she 
said,  a  smile  lighting  up  her  face.  The  intangible  atmos- 
phere of  coquetry  was  about  her,  but  it  was  dignified 
by  a  certain  pensiveness  in  her  bearing.  Olivia's  serious- 

60 


THE    CHOICE 


ness  of  manner  seemed  sometimes  to  Robert  her  strongest 
weapon.    It  was  impossible  to  tell  what  it  hid. 

"  Ah,  but  you  are  responsible,"  he  said,  reproach  in 
his  voice. 

"And  if  I  were — then  what?" 

"  You  would  have  to  remember  which  self." 

"  I  only  remember  pleasant  things,"  she  said.  Then, 
as  she  crossed  the  room  toward  him,  she  added,  "  Let 
us  go  into  the  garden.  It  is  too  charming  a  day  to  be 
indoors." 

He  spoke  of  the  edition  of  Novalis. 

"  I  will  send  Mr.  Peyton  a  boxful  of  mystics,  from 
Plotinus  to  Maeterlinck." 

"  Have  you  read  them  all  ?  "  Robert  asked. 

She  laughed. 

"  Of  course  not." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Haven't  you  learned  yet  not  to  ask  me  questions  ? 
You  know  I  never  answer  them." 

Her  voice  was  full  of  soft  reproach ;  her  eyes  mocked 
him,  yet  they  held  enticement. 

He  did  not  follow  her  at  once.    In  his  heart  he  was 
wishing  that  he  had  not  come.     It  was  the  first  time 
that  they  had  been  alone  together,  and  he  found  that  he 
was  not  at  his  ease. 
.  "  What  garden  are  you  going  to,  if  I  may  ask  ?  " 

"  There  is  only  one  garden — mine." 

The  simple  words  jarred  upon  him,  as  if  they  hid 
much  more  than  their  obvious  meaning. 

"  Let  us  walk  about  the  park,"  he  suggested. 

"  Don't  you  like  my  garden  ?  "  she  said,  not  pausing 
in  her  walk  or  changing  her  direction.  They  were  soon 
among  the  warm  splendors  of  the  flowers  nodding  in  the 

61 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

late  August  heat.  A  delicate  blue  haze  rested  on  the  dis- 
tant mountains.  Nothing  was  clear  of  outline.  Not  a 
leaf  stirred  in  the  sweet,  heavy  air. 

Olivia  seated  herself  on  the  marble  bench,  leaning 
her  dark  head  against  a  term  that  rose  directly  behind 
it,  a  column  of  old,  yellow  stone  ending  in  a  fantastic 
satyr-face,  the  whole  half  smothered  in  the  embrace  of  a 
riotous  rose-bush.  She  picked  one  of  the  deep  crimson 
flowers  and  held  it  against  her  lips,  against  her  cheek,  as 
she  talked  of  indifferent  matters  in  a  monotone  as  lulling 
to  the  senses  as  the  murmur  of  a  stream.  Robert's  vague 
discomfort  gave  way  gradually  to  content  in  being  there 
with  her,  quite  alone  with  her  in  that  still  and  hidden 
place. 

"  Tell  me  about  your  work,"  she  said.  "  Does  it  go 
well  ?  Are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

Her  words  released  his  accumulated  doubts  and  dis- 
contents of  the  past  weeks.  That  was  precisely  what  he 
was  not.  Life  in  a  country  town,  always  more  or  less 
irksome  to  him,  had  become  doubly  so  since  his  return, 
from  Paris.  He  believed  that  the  attrition  of  struggle 
in  the  city  made  cleaner-cut  the  requirements  of  a  great 
profession.  Before  he  realized  it  he  was  unburdening 
his  impatient  hopes  and  plans  to  her,  as  he  had  done 
to  no  one,  not  even  to  his  mother  or  Brooke.  He 
was  surprised  at  his  own  vehemence.  Suddenly  he 
broke  off. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  am  telling  you  these  things. 
Perhaps  I  feel  that  you  could  never  misunderstand." 

"  Not  to  misunderstand  is  the  least  we  can  do  for 
people,"  she  said  gently. 

He  went  on  with  added  confidence,  feeling  her  sym- 
pathy like  the  actual  touch  of  caressing  fingers.  When 

62 


THE    CHOICE 


he  had  finished  she  made  no  comment.     She  seemed  to 
be  thinking  deeply. 

"  I  shouldn't  be  able  to  make  it  clear  to  Dr.  Corton — 
perhaps  not  to  my  father.  But  in  the  city  I  should  have 
the  stimulus  of  many  things." 

She  was  silent,  her  eyes  glowing  with  some  inner 
light  of  thought,  but  she  kept  the  signs  of  struggle  from 
her  face.  She  was  making  her  choice  of  roads.  The 
feeling  which  he  had  aroused  in  her  she  had  ended  in 
resenting,  because  it  fell  in  with  no  plan  of  hers  for  her 
future.  Should  she  kill  it  angrily,  putting  him  out  of 
her  life,  or  should  she  make  of  it  a  flame  such  as  wreck- 
ers kindle  on  inaccessible  cliffs,  that  the  precious  cargo 
may  float  ashore  from  the  doomed  vessel?  She  had 
divined  from  the  first  that  Robert's  love  for  Brooke  was 
closely  allied  to  the  calm  of  a  long,  close  friendship ;  had 
been  tempted  from  the  first  to  rouse  the  sleeping  lion  in 
him.  With  difficult  art — the  only  kind  that  appealed 
to  her — she  had  tried  to  waken  him  in  the  very  pres- 
ence of  his  betrothed.  A  word  from  her  now  might 
suffice. 

"  Go  to  the  city.  It  is  worth  the  intervening  diffi- 
culties. You  could  make  a  name  there." 

"  I've  always  wanted  to  go,  now  more  than  ever,"  he 
said  in  a  low  voice,  yet  half  astonished  at  his  words  as 
he  uttered  them. 

"  Hasn't  Miss  Peyton  also  ambitions  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  I  have  read  some  little  stories  of  hers.  You  could  work 
out  your  salvation  together." 

He  assented  eagerly. 

"  I  would  not  go  unless  Brooke  would  carry  out  her 
former  plan  of  going  to  the  city  next  winter.  She  has 
relatives  there.  I  should  be  glad  for  her  sake." 

63 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

She  smiled,  drawing  the  rose  across  her  lips  before 
speaking. 

"  Be  frank  with  yourself — Robert.  You  want  to  go 
for  your  own." 

Her  little  hesitating  pause  before  she  uttered  his 
name  enchanted  him,  hurt  him.  He  rose  and  walked 
slowly  away  from  her  toward  the  balustrade  of  the  ter- 
race, keeping  his  face  turned  away  until  he  was  sure 
that  the  blinding  light  had  died  there.  He  sat  on  the 
balustrade  a  moment,  playing  with  his  cane,  his  tall  fig- 
ure more  tense  than  usual,  his  lips  pressed  firmly  to- 
gether, his  eyes  dark  and  troubled.  At  last  a  smile 
flitted  across  his  face  like  a  gleam  of  light  on  deep  water. 
He  rose  and  came  slowly  back  to  her. 

"  It  is  evident  that  you  have  plummets  for  sounding 
a  man's  selfishness.  I  have  kept  you  much  too  long.  I 
must  say  '  Addio.'  " 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes  that  laughed. 

"Must  you  really  go?     Take  this  to  Brooke." 

She  handed  him  the  rose. 

He  went  from  her^  conscious  only  that  the  flower  he 
held  had  been  against  her  cheek,  her  lips.  When  he 
reached  a  lonely  part  of  the  grounds  he  paused,  and 
pressed  it  passionately  to  his  own. 

The  act  seemed  to  wake  him.  With  a  quick  gesture 
he  threw  the  rose  to  the  ground  and  crushed  it  beneath 
his  heel. 


64 


ROBERT  faced  the  fact  that  the  crushing  of  the  rose 
by  no  means  implied  the  crushing  of  what  it  symbolized, 
an  emotion  which  seemed  to  have  the  strength  of  some- 
thing full-grown.  How  and  when  it  had  stolen  upon 
him,  soft-footed  through  unsuspected  corridors,  he  could 
not  tell,  restless  with  his  impatience  of  it  and  with  the 
sense  of  dishonor. 

He  hated  tricks  of  passion,  a  certain  fastidiousness 
in  his  nature  recoiling  from  the  indiscriminate  nature  of 
the  attractions  of  the  senses.  He  had  been  always  sin- 
gularly keen  in  detecting  a  mirage  of  the  flesh,  taking  it 
for  what  it  was  worth,  and  no  more.  He  played  his 
comedies  with  his  eyes  wide  open,  nor  did  he  ever  con- 
fuse the  attraction  of  a  blond  curl  on  a  white  neck  with 
any  permanent  need  of  his  nature. 

Brooke's  strong,  poised  love  had  seemed  to  him  de- 
serving of  something  finer  than  ardors.  To  offer  her  a 
sincere  and  earnest  trust,  fidelity  of  thought,  all  the 
beautiful  moralities  of  friendship  touched  with  dreams, 
was  the  tribute  most  worthy  of  her  character. 

But  was  this  feeling  for  Olivia  a  trick  of  transitory 
emotion?  To  his  sorrow  he  knew  that  when  he  thought 
of  her,  banners  streamed  against  the  sky,  high  doorways 
opened,  and  pageants  in  gorgeous  colors  moved  toward 
towered  cities.  Strength  and  space  were  the  gifts  she 
offered,  and  already  the  narrow  warmth  of  the  fireside 
seemed  to  suffocate  him. 

Yet  a  deep  anger  possessed  him  that  this  should  be, 
65 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

the  first  effect  of  which  was  a  resolution  to  remain  in 
Trenthampton,  working  as  if  to  defeat  a  legion  of  devils. 
A  new  tenderness  for  Brooke  awoke  in  him.  Every  mo- 
ment of  his  spare  time  he  spent  with  her,  putting  her 
face  between  him  and  these  fresh  perspectives. 

He  did  not  go  again  to  "  The  Towers,"  saying  to 
Brooke  that  his  conscience  troubled  him,  a  statement 
which  she  connected  directly  with  his  father's  business 
affairs.  She  herself  in  this  interval  saw  Olivia  fre- 
quently. The  two  women  read  together  and  took  long 
walks  together  on  the  hills  above  Trenthampton.  To 
Brooke,  Olivia  showed  chiefly  the  wholesome,  out-of- 
door  side  of  her  nature,  a  side  more  developed  than  was 
always  evident. 

One  day,  as  Robert  walked  along  the  main  street  of 
the  town,  he  heard  his  name  called  softly.  Olivia,  on 
horseback,  had  ridden  to  the  curb,  and  was  looking  at 
him  with  an  expression  of  nonchalance,  not  unmingled 
with  amusement. 

"  I  have  just  sent  Brooke  a  box  of  red  roses,"  she 
said. 

"  That  is  kind  of  you,"  Robert  answered,  fearful  lest 
his  voice  should  not  be  natural. 

"  You  don't  ask  me  why,  but  I'll  tell  you.  You 
robbed  her  of  the  flower  I  sent  her.  I  found  it  in  the 
park  walk  quite  crushed,  poor  little  rose!  You  must 
have  dropped  it.  It  was  careless  of  you,  Robert." 

To  his  disgust  he  felt  himself  color. 

"  So  I  chose  a  safer  messenger,"  she  went  on,  "  and 
with  the  flowers  was  a  note,  asking  you  both  to  dine  with 
me  to-morrow  evening.  You  will  come,  of  course." 

She  gave  him  no  time  to  reply.  He  watched  her  out 
of  sight,  then  walked  slowly  toward  Brooke's  home,  say- 

66 


THE    CHOICE 


ing  that  they  must  decline  the  invitation;  yet  he  knew 
in  his  heart  that  he  would  go. 

He  found  Brooke  arranging  her  flowers  in  a  tall  glass 
vase,  an  expression  in  her  face  half  puzzled,  half  amused. 

"  Olivia  sent  these,"  she  said  as  he  greeted  her. 
"  She  wrote  a  strange  little  note,  charging  the  roses  up 
against  some  misdoing  of  yours." 

Robert  explained  partially;  then  he  asked: 

"  We  are  not  going  to  the  dinner,  are  we  ?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  No  reason,"  he  said  musingly,  "  except  perhaps 
that  the  insolence  of  their  wealth  is  again  uppermost  in 
my  consciousness." 

"  Never  mind  that.    Olivia  is  quite  apart  from  that." 

"  Unfortunately,  yes,"  he  answered. 

The  friendly  informality  of  the  dinner,  at  which 
Olivia  was  the  impersonal,  yet  charming,  hostess,  put 
him  back  where  he  desired  to  be.  The  episode  of  the 
rose,  he  told  himself,  was  but  an  incursion  into  the 
fantastic. 

But  his  desire  to  remove  to  the  city  was  left  a  hard, 
insoluble  fact  after  all  his  alchemy.  He  refused  to  con- 
nect this  fact  with  Olivia,  his  metropolitan  ambitions 
having  antedated  his  acquaintance  with  her,  but  every 
thought  of  his  possible  life  and  work  in  the  city  led  per- 
versely to  her  at  last. 

He  resolved  to  ask  Brooke  if  she  would  countenance 
his  going  by  a  revival  of  her  own  ambitions.  He  broached 
the  subject  one  Sunday  afternoon  when  they  had  wan- 
dered far  up  the  mountainside,  saying  little  for  sheer 
joy  in  the  beauty  surrounding  them. 

"  And  leave  this !  "  she  said,  waving  a  hand  toward 
the  blue  peaks  whose  lonely  summits  met  a  bluer  sky. 

6? 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  You  can't  live  on  a  view,"  Robert  answered,  be- 
ginning to  whittle  a  stick  into  the  shape  of  an  ugly 
idol,  a  kind  of  doll  Angelica  had  a  special  prefer- 
ence for. 

Brooke  read  the  communicative  mood  in  his  face,  and 
settled  herself  to  listen. 

"  I've  known  you  had  something  on  your  mind  for 
the  past  three  weeks,"  she  said,  her  clear  voice  sympa- 
thetic. 

He  closed  his  eyes  a  moment,  as  if  to  shut  out  a  too 
persistent  vision. 

"  Why  didn't  you  ask  me  what  it  was  ?  " 

"  You  can't  question  people  you  care  for,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"  Wise,  adorable  lady !  " 

He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  She 
flushed  with  pleasure.  Robert's  symbols  of  his  love  had 
not  been  frequent  of  late. 

"  Before  I  begin,  tell  me  what  special  type  of  ugli- 
ness Angelica  would  like  for  her  fetish.  Shall  I  make 
him  all  ears  or  all  mouth  ?  " 

"  Anything,  so  it's  grotesque.  She's  an  odd  chick. 
She  prefers  these  wooden  horrors  to  the  French  doll  you 
brought  her." 

Robert  therewith  began  to  whittle  and  talk.  Brooke, 
weaving  pine-needles,  listened  to  a  much  less  impassioned 
discourse  than  Olivia  had  drawn  forth.  He  stated  his 
case  dryly,  but  with  emphasis. 

"  Now  I  want  you  to  go  with  me,"  he  wound  up. 
"  Doesn't  your  father's  sister  live  in  town  ?  " 

"Aunt  Angelica?  Yes.  I  had  thought  of  going  to 
her  before  our  engagement." 

"  Why  not  now,  dear?  " 
68 


THE    CHOICE 


"  You  blotted  out  the  city." 

He  turned  his  head  sharply  away. 

"  You  make  me  more  than  I  am,  Brooke.  There, 
perhaps,  I  could  win  my  spurs  for  you." 

"  That  is  not  necessary,"  she  said  gravely ;  "  what 
you  do  here  counts  just  as  much  to  me." 

"  It  is  a  wider  field." 

"  But  a  difficult  one  to  enter.  What  are  your  ways 
and  means?" 

He  unfolded  the  details  of  his  plans  to  her.  She 
listened  with  close  attention,  wishing  that  the  spark  of 
enthusiasm  would  kindle  in  her  own  breast.  She  remem- 
bered how  keen  she  had  been  to  test  her  powers  before 
that  brilliant,  all-transforming  week  of  Robert's  wooing. 
But  other  causes  had  aided  in  lessening  her  desire  for 
warfare — her  companionship  with  her  mother,  her  care, 
of  the  ubiquitous  children. 

"  You  would  not  desert  me,  Brooke,  would  you,  if  I 
went  up  to  the  city  ?  You  would  go  and  work  there,  too  ?  " 

She  was  silent. 

"Dear?" 

She  looked  up  gravely. 

"  Robert,  I  am  afraid  I  would  do  anything  you  wanted 
me  to  do — that  was  right." 

"  Don't  you  feel  this  is  ?  " 

"  I  can  hardly  judge  for  you." 

"But  for  yourself?" 

"  It  would  depend  largely  on  what  the  family  thought 
of  it." 

"Your  mother?" 

A  smile  flitted  across  her  face. 

"  She  understands  restlessness,"  she  answered. 

"And  your  father?" 

69 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  He  would  think  it  right  if  I  succeeded,  and  wrong 
if  I  failed." 

Robert  nodded. 

"  I  know !  Well,  let  us  go  in  and  win,  Brooke.  I 
have  much  at  stake." 

"  And  I  want  to  please  you." 

He  knit  his  brows. 

"  Don't  say  that.  I  want  you  to  be  ambitious  for 
yourself." 

She  smiled. 

"  You  shouldn't  have  made  me  love  you  if  you 
wanted  me  to  be  famous.  I  have  not  genius  enough  for 
both  destinies.  Remember,  there  was  a  time  when  you 
didn't  want  me  to  leave  Trenthampton." 

"  The  logic  is  irreproachable.  I  thought  then  I  was 
to  be  here.  You  see,  I  want  you  with  me  wherever  I 
am.  I  believe  you  could  do  great  things  in  town,  how- 
ever." 

"  Oh,  if  I  went  to  the  city  I  suppose  the  spark  would 
kindle,"  she  said,  laughing.  "  When  would  you  go  ?  " 

"As  soon  as  possible." 

"  I  would  like  to  stay  until  Richard  has  begun  to 
talk,"  she  said  wistfully. 

Robert  frowned. 

"  Brooke,"  he  said  sternly,  "  if  you're  going  to  put 
a  baby  between  you  and  destiny  you'll  never  succeed." 

"  But  such  a  baby,  Robert !  " 

He  laughed  in  spite  of  himself,  then  looked  away  with 
a  little  sigh.  He  wished  that  she  were  not  so  true,  so 
good,  so  reliable.  He  feared  that  she  would  leave  too 
little  to  his  imagination. 


CHAPTER  IX 

JAMES  ERSKINE  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  garden 
path  in  front  of  his  house,  endeavoring  to  put  into  rela- 
tive order  the  points  of  an  important  interview  which  he 
had  just  had  with  his  son.  He  was  himself  in  that  rest- 
less, apprehensive  state  of  mind  which,  awakening  the 
gambling  instinct,  sees  in  any  change  the  chance  of  a 
favorable  change  of  fortune. 

The  older  man  within  him,  cautious,  wary,  and  half 
discouraged,  called  upon  him  to  take  no  negative  stand 
in  the  matter  of  Robert's  migration,  but  to  protest  against 
it  as  a  throw  of  the  dice  in  the  dark;  but  his  adolescent 
spirit,  though  long  overlaid  by  experience,  was  more 
than  inclined  to  aid  the  young  adventurer. 

He  threw  away  his  cigar  at  last  and  walked  quickly 
toward  the  house,  resolving  to  ease  the  burden  of  his 
indecision  by  sharing  it  with  his  wife.  Her  patient  care 
of  him  in  these  past  weeks,  her  perfect  command  of  the 
whole  gamut  of  silence,  had  awakened  in  him  the  spirit 
of  dependence.  Into  the  mists  of  the  future  he  had  no 
desire  to  go  alone. 

He  found  her  at  her  desk  sorting  letters.  Her  smile 
of  welcome  gave  him  courage  to  begin.  She  listened 
without  interruption  while  he  related  Robert's  plans,  un- 
consciously apologizing  for  them,  justifying  them,  laying 
the  emphasis  on  every  possible  advantage  to  accrue  from 
them. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  said  when  he  had  finished  his  plea. 

He  saw  in  her  face  that  she  wanted  to  agree  with 
71 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

him,  but  could  not.  He  wondered  whether  her  reluctance 
was  bom  of  the  maternal  desire  to  keep  her  son  near  her, 
or  of  some  sterner  principle. 

"  Let  us  be  honest  with  each  other,"  she  said  at  last. 
"  Do  you  want  to  know  what  I  really  think  ?  " 

"  You  need  not  tell  me,"  he  answered.  "  I  see  you 
think  it  best  for  Robert  to  remain  here." 

She  looked  up  with  a  deprecating  smile. 

"  I  have  no  reasons  that  would  satisfy  you.  I  simply 
want  him  near  me." 

"  He  will  never  make  much  money  here,"  Erskine 
said,  the  look  of  care  deepening  in  his  eyes. 

"Does  that  matter?" 

"  He  is  not  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,"  Erskine  answered 
impatiently.  "If  he  can't  make  money  he  should  cease 
to  be  an  American  citizen." 

The  bitterness  in  his  voice  told  her  much.  She  laid 
her  hand  gently  on  his  arm. 

"  But  Robert's  chance  of  making  much  money  in  the 
city  is  most  uncertain.  Besides,  it  will  take  some  capital 
to  set  him  up." 

Erskine  nodded,  but  did  not  reply  at  once. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  surrender,"  he  said  at  last,  with 
a  weary  accent.  "  If  I  fight  Winwood  much  longer  I'll 
have  nothing  to  give  up.  If  I  sell  out  now,  I'll  have  a 
little  capital  at  least,  which,  properly  invested,  will  keep 
us  going  if  we  retrench  here.  You're  such  a  wonderful 
housekeeper,  Margaret,  that  I  can  ask  it  of  you,"  he  said 
with  a  smile  that  seemed  sadder  to  her  than  his  gravity. 

'  Tell  me  the  business  situation.  Explain  it  to  me 
in  full,"  she  replied,  settling  herself  in  her  chair. 

He  began  his  story  awkwardly,  conscious  of  the  dumb 
years  between  them.  But  after  a  time  he  was  aware  only 

72 


THE    CHOICE 


of  his  relief  in  speaking  out.  She  listened  with  masculine 
fixedness  of  attention,  keeping,  by  a  strong  effort,  her 
feeling  from  her  face,  lest  such  a  running  commentary 
should  curb  his  frankness.  When  he  had  finished,  she 
said: 

"  By  all  means  sell  out,  and  get  clear  of  Winwood. 
It  isn't  as  if  Robert  could  ever  carry  on  the  business. 
I  don't  care  what  the  price  of  freedom  is." 

"  Nor  I.  Now  about  the  boy.  Would  you  be  will- 
ing for  me  to  set  him  up  in  town  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  anxiously,  an  expression  of  apology 
in  his  tired  eyes. 

"  I  wouldn't  invest  much  capital  in  such  an  enter- 
prise." 

"  But  you  have  always  been  so  ambitious  for  him," 
he  said  reproachfully. 

She  was  silent  for  some  moments;  then  she  said: 

"  I  am  ambitious  for  him,  but  not  in  that  way.  I 
wanted  him  to  be  Dr.  Gorton's  successor.  What  does 
Brooke  think?" 

"  He  has  made  his  going  conditional  on  her  going," 
Erskine  replied.  "  She  will  try  to  get  literary  work  of 
some  kind." 

"  God  help  her ! "  Mrs.  Erskine  said,  half  under  her 
breath. 

Her  husband,  after  a  moment's  silence,  turned  and 
left  the  room.  When  he  came  back  he  had  his  hat  and 
cane  in  his  hand. 

"  I  am  going  up  to  see  Winwood,"  he  said. 

"To  tell  him?" 

"  What  I  should  have  told  him  weeks  ago ;  but  I  had 
more  courage  then." 

"That  you  will  sell?" 

6  73 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  That  I  will  sell."  He  twisted  his  hat  in  his  hands 
nervously,  then,  looking  up,  he  added  with  an  attempt 
at  a  smile: 

"  We'll  place  Robert  in  the  van  of  our  fortunes." 

She  rose  and  went  over  to  him. 

"  Whatever  you  do,  whatever  happens,  I  will  never 
blame  you,"  she  said  quietly.  "  We  have  come  too  far 
together  for  blame  now." 

For  answer  he  kissed  her  cheek.  The  color  stole  into 
her  face.  His  act,  annihilating  the  years,  restored  to  her 
for  an  instant  the  lover  of  her  youth. 

Robert  and  Brooke  meanwhile  were  answering  Dr. 
Gorton's  inquiries,  as  searching  and  direct  as  those  of 
a  lawyer.  Whatever  Brooke  felt,  Robert  at  least  had  the 
sensation  of  facing  a  glare  of  light  which  achromatized 
certain  hues  in  his  picture  of  the  future. 

They  were  seated  in  the  office,  brightened  on  this  late 
September  day  by  a  wood-fire,  which  threw  charming 
lights  and  shadows  on  the  brown  walls,  and  foretold  the 
delicate  poetry  of  winter.  Brooke,  in  a  red  gown,  seemed 
a  part  of  the  comfort  of  the  place.  She  was  gazing  into 
the  fire,  taking  little  part  in  the  conversation,  but  from 
time  to  time  she  turned  her  large,  brown  eyes  toward 
Robert  with  a  reassuring  smile.  In  the  past  week  she  felt 
that  she  had  come  closer  to  him  than  ever  before,  as  a 
woman  does  to  the  man  who  is  taking  her  with  him  into 
the  perilous  sweetness  of  the  unknown  and  the  untried. 
Sharing  his  dreams,  his  hopes,  his  ambitions,  she  seemed 
wooed  the  second  time.  Her  reluctance  to  leave  her 
mother  had  not  diminished,  but  the  strongest  of  all 
forces  was  arrayed  against  it.  Wherever  Robert  was 
would  be  home  to  her.  Under  his  stimulus  her  ambitions 
were  again  awakening,  though  not  in  their  earlier  guise. 

74 


THE    CHOICE 


They  all  led  now  to  him.  Yet  the  vision  of  the  city  was 
not  without  its  charm ;  she  remembered  it  as  she  Had  last 
seen  it,  in  an  opalescent  cloud  of  sunset  reflected  in  the 
great  river  that  bounded  it,  its  giant  buildings  soaring 
toward  the  unattainable,  its  multitudinous  echoes  rising, 
blending  into  a  choral  passion  of  a  world  as  wide  as 
humanity  itself.  Was  she  strong  enough  to  live  there? 
she  asked  herself  more  than  once. 

After  a  time  Dr.  Corton  ceased  to  question,  and  be- 
came apparently  absorbed  in  thought.  He  leaned  his 
white  head  against  the  high  back  of  his  wooden  chair, 
his  face  flushed,  as  if  with  some  protest  that  he  would  not 
give  voice  to  prematurely  or  unadvisedly;  his  strong 
hands,  singularly  free  from  the  disfigurements  of  old 
age,  fingered  a  ruler  on  his  desk.  Robert  was  wishing 
that  his  godfather  would  give  an  opinion  one  way  or  the 
other.  This  silence  seemed  to  put  him  in  the  wrong. 

But  it  deepened,  broken  only  by  the  crackling  of  the 
wood,  the  soft  tap  of  flying  leaves  against  the  window- 
panes.  Once  Brooke  started,  hearing  a  cry,  as  she 
thought,  of  something  wandering  outside. 

"  It  is  the  wind  at  the  door,"  Robert  said  in  a  low 
voice. 

He  waited  respectfully  for  some  word  of  approval  or 
disapproval  from  his  godfather,  but  none  came.  At  last 
the  old  man  rose,  with  a  weariness  of  attitude,  and  went 
toward  the  fireplace,  his  shoulders  bent,  the  look  of  his 
great  age  more  clearly  upon  him  than  they  had  ever  seen 
it.  Opening  the  door  of  a  corner  cupboard,  sacred  to 
them  as  children  for  its  store  of  nuts  and  sweets,  he  took 
from  it  a  plate  of  fruit.  The  action,  so  trifling  in  itself, 
seemed  to  Brooke  and  Robert  to  put  them  back  again 
to  the  time  when,  seated  in  the  office  chairs,  their  little 

75- 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

feet  could  not  touch  the  floor.  So  for  the  next  half-hour 
the  old  physician  held  them  in  the  past,  nor  did  he  refer 
again  to  the  subject  of  their  migration  until  they  were 
taking  leave;  then  he  said: 

"  I  didn't  advise  you,  Robert,  because  your  mind  was 
made  up  before  you  came  to  me.  As  you  know  what 
you  want,  I'll  help  you  all  I  can." 

Robert  murmured  his  thanks,  glad,  he  scarcely  knew 
why,  to  get  away  from  his  godfather's  keen  eyes.  Yet 
he  told  himself  that  he  had  nothing  to  hide.  He  and 
Brooke  were  now  in  perfect  agreement  as  to  their  plans. 
The  city  was  to  be  their  battle-ground,  their  Field 
of  Life. 

They  did  not  leave  the  place  at  once,  but,  led  by  a 
common  instinct,  sought  a  little  hill  behind  the  apple 
orchard.  From  its  summit  the  autumn  world  was  un- 
rolled before  them  with  its  gorgeous  colors  of  decay,  its 
pageant  of  ineffable  farewells.  Evening  crept  up  the 
mountainside,  accompanied  by  the  hollow  voices  of  the 
wind.  Robert  and  Brooke,  absorbed  in  thought,  did  not 
seem  to  see  the  landscape.  At  last  she  moved  nearer  to 
him,  and  he  saw  that  she  shivered. 

"  Dear,  are  you  cold  ?    Shall  we  walk  on  ?  " 

"  No,  not  cold.  I  had  a  strange,  ugly  fancy  for  a 
moment." 

"What  was  it?" 

"  An  incredible  thing.    It  is  gone  now." 

All  the  light  had  faded  from  her  face,  which,  in  the 
shadows  of  the  approaching  evening,  looked  pale  and 
weary.  He  put  his  arm  around  her  with  a  protecting 
gesture  and  bent  repentant  lips  to  her  forehead. 


BOOK  II 
THE   CITY 

"And  is  it  not  reasonable  that  all  men  should  desire  to  be 
of  a  City  such  as  that,  and  take  no  account  of  the  length  and  diffi- 
culty of  the  way  thither,  so  only  they  may  one  day  become  its 
freemen?" 


CHAPTER  X 

"Do  you  doubt  me?" 

"  No,  but  I  doubt  your  powers  of  discernment.  You 
speak  to  me  as  if  I  were  an  embryonic  St.  Theresa.  I 
tell  you  I  am  perfectly  selfish,  that  I  have  no  higher 
desire  than  to  exclude,  as  far  as  possible,  the  ugly  and  the 
disagreeable  from  my  life." 

Olivia  enjoyed  telling  the  truth  to  Paul  Mallory 
because  he  never  believed  it  if  it  ran  counter  in  the  slight- 
est degree  to  his  preconceived  ideal  of  her.  He  looked 
at  her  now  with  an  incredulous  expression  in  his  large 
blue  eyes,  singularly  uncontaminate,  as  if  they  saw  only 
what  they  wished  to  see. 

He  belonged  to  one  of  the  oldest  and  wealthiest 
families  of  the  city,  and  until  his  acquaintance  began  with 
Olivia  he  had  never  stepped  outside  his  inherited  social 
circle,  in  which  he  had  a  reputation  for  taciturnity  and 
unyouthful  gravity  that  some  attributed  to  depth  of  char- 
acter, others  to  an  early  disappointment  in  love.  A  more 
striking  trait  was  a  faith  in  his  claims  of  birth  so  abso- 
lute that  his  devotion  to  Olivia  filled  him  continually  with 
surprise,  as  did  her  adaptation  to  environments  of  which 
by  training  she  could  know  nothing.  A  more  astute  man 
could  have  easily  divined  the  secret  of  her  rapid  social 
ascent  from  the  financial  plateau  represented  by  Henry 
Winwood.  Olivia  never  "  climbed,"  was  devoted  to  her 
parents,  was,  apparently,  indifferent  as  to  whether  people 
received  her  or  not;  invited  whom  she  pleased  to  her 

79 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

house,  and  carried  her  courage  and  her  nonchalance  into 
the  first  high  place  open  to  her,  with  the  result  that  other 
citadels  soon  surrendered  to  her  supreme  unconcern. 

Mallory,  too  much  of  a  gentleman  at  heart  to  insist 
upon  the  aristocratic  rigidities  in  others  which  had  bul- 
warked his  own  beautiful  family  and  transmitted  its 
powerful  negativity  from  generation  to  generation,  was 
led  into  further  compliance  by  the  strongest  attraction 
which  he  had  ever  experienced  in  the  course  of  his  well- 
regulated  existence.  Almost  since  his  first  meeting  with 
Olivia,  a  year  or  two  before,  she  had  dominated  his  heart 
and  awakened  his  somewhat  sluggish  imagination.  He 
was  resolved  to  win  her,  but  as  yet  he  had  not  had  the 
courage  to  face  a  possible  refusal. 

"  I  can  not  believe,"  he  said  in  his  low,  well-modulated 
voice,  "  that  you  are  without  feeling." 

"What  is  the  use  of  feeling?"  she  said  lightly. 
"  When  you  begin  to  feel  you  begin  to  demand,  and  when 
you  begin  to  demand  you  open  yourself  to  denials.  The 
masters  of  life  never  have  '  no  '  said  to  them.  Don't 
look  frightened,"  she  added,  smiling,  "  I  am  seldom 
oracular;  and  please,  will  you  put  the  bowl  of  violets  a 
little  this  way.  The  yellow  damask  is  a  good  back- 
ground." 

He  rose  and  moved  the  bowl  nearer  the  curtain.  The 
long,  pale-yellow  room  was  in  a  rich  twilight,  a  mingling 
of  the  radiance  of  candles  with  the  clear  yellow  of  an 
autumn  sunset.  The  windows  overlooked  the  great  river 
that  bounded  the  city  on  the  west. 

"  I  fear  that  I  am  not  a  master  then,"  Mallory  said, 
resuming  his  seat. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  questioned. 

He  was  silent  a  long  time.  The  pride  of  a  man  who 
80 


THE    CITY 

dreads  refusal  struggled  with  the  strong  current  of  his 
feeling. 

"  Olivia,"  he  said  at  last,  "  you  must  know  that  I  love 
you.  I  ask  you  to  be  my  wife." 

His  boyish  face  was  turned  to  her  with  an  almost 
hieratic  gravity.  She  knew  in  a  moment  that  he  would 
be  faithful,  that  he  would  wait  for  her  as  long  as  she 
chose. 

Her  own  face  was  thoughtful,  not  untouched  with 
melancholy.  She  was  wondering  how  she  could  answer 
him  without  hurting  him  too  much.  She  never  hurt 
people  unless  it  was  necessary  to  bind  them  more  closely 
to  herself,  realizing  that  pain  has  a  longer  memory 
than  joy. 

"  It  is  better,"  she  said,  "  that  you  and  I  remain 
friends,  Paul.  I  am  afraid  that  you  could  not  make  me 
happy  in  any  other  relation,  and  unless  I  were  happy  you 
would  be  miserable.  As  a  friend  you  content  me.  Isn't 
that  a  great  deal ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  in  a  dull,  hurt  voice,  "  it  is  little.  I 
want  bread.  You  offer  me  a  stone." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  she  answered.  "  You  want 
wine." 

"  I  want  you." 

"  You  want  what  you  think  I  am." 

"But  you  don't  know  yourself,"  he  said  earnestly; 
"  you  were  made  for  great  things." 

She  smiled. 

"  What  great  things  could  I  do  as  your  wife  ? — pre- 
side at  your  dinners,  entertain  your  friends  and  be  enter- 
tained by  them.  If  I  am  made  for  great  things,  least  of 
all  must  I  marry  into  the  circle  of  the  elect." 

Her  voice  was  satirical,  but  her  eyes  made  amends. 
81 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  Oh,  I  don't  pretend  we're  anything  but  sheep,"  he 
said  humbly;  yet  he  was  dazed  by  her  refusal,  by  her 
criticism  of  what  had  been  to  him  the  holy  of  holies. 
But  this  indifference  to  all  that  he  could  offer  her  only 
increased  his  ardor. 

"  Let  us  be  friends  at  least,"  she  said.  "  Do  you  know 
how  much  harder  it  is,  how  much  greater  it  is,  to  be  a 
good  friend  than  a  lover?  In  friendship  you  have  to  for- 
get your  egotism  and  your  demands;  you  have  to  be 
brave  and  gay,  and  as  impersonal  as  sunlight." 

"How  can  I  change  my  feeling?"  he  said  bitterly. 
"  I  am  not  going  in  for  heroics.  I  want  you." 

"  You  are  not  the  hundredth  man,"  she  replied.  "  I 
can't  expect  you  to  be  my  friend." 

"  I  have  no  extraordinary  virtues." 

"  And  we  are  always  looking  for  those,"  she  said, 
sighing. 

"  So  you  refuse  me." 

"  I  do  not  refuse  your  friendship." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  have  a  desolate  winter  after  my 
wretched  summer  ?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  Did  you  have  a  wretched  summer?  Mine  was 
delightful.  I  had  two  friends  who  were  always  enter- 
taining." 

"  They  were  fortunate  if  they  had  the  power  to  enter- 
tain you." 

"  No,  I  was  the  fortunate  one." 

"  Did  they  really  find  your  heart,  these  friends  ?  " 

"  They  found  my  imagination,  which  is  better." 

"  Olivia,  you  are  cruel." 

"If  that  is  your  theory  you  can  order  your  armor." 

"  It  is  too  late.  I'll  have  to  win  without  it.  Olivia, 
82 


THE    CITY 

I  shall  ask  you  again  to  be  my  wife.  I  shall  keep  on 
asking  until  you  consent." 

He  rose  and  stood  before  her  with  a  dignity  and  con- 
fidence that  pleased  her.  She  liked  a  man  who  would 
not  acknowledge  defeat. 

"  I'll  not  consent  until  you  can  prove  something 
to  me." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"  That  I  love  you." 

His  discomfited  look  was  his  only  answer. 

When  he  was  gone  she  gave  her  whole  attention  to  an 
unseen  visitor.  She  had  been  now  a  month  in  town  and 
Robert  had  not  called  on  her.  His  delay  had  joined 
forces  with  her  lesser  self,  arousing  in  her  the  desire  to 
exercise  upon  him  when  he  did  come  certain  arts  of  which 
she  was  mistress.  Olivia  obeyed  the  law  of  contraries. 
To  give  her  what  she  wished  was  to  be  safer  with  her 
than  to  cross  her  will. 

But  in  this  case  paradox  was,  after  all,  but  a  minor 
influence.  With  her  usual  frankness  in  self-analysis  she 
knew  that  at  last  she  was  in  the  subordinate  position  of 
a  woman  who  both  feels  and  demands.  Just  what  she 
felt  for  Robert  she  scarcely  knew.  What  she  was  sure 
of  was  the  dividing  of  her  roads.  She  would  never  marry 
a  provincial;  yet  a  provincial,  a  man  whose  family  was 
unknown  and  unrecognized  by  those  ultimate  circles  of 
the  city  toward  which  her  well-concealed  ambition  gravi- 
tated, was,  by  the  irony  of  fate,  the  only  person  who  had 
ever  aroused  in  her  the  sense  of  not  being  complete  in 
herself. 

Because  this  was  so,  it  seemed  perfectly  natural  to 
her  to  theorize  concerning  a  possible  marriage  with  Rob- 
ert. That  he  was  engaged  to  Brooke  had  been  from  the 

83 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

first  but  an  incident  to  her.  She  not  only  held  the 
American  view  of  engagements,  as  experiments  more  or 
less  of  the  strength  of  an  attachment,  but  this  attitude  of 
mind  was  reenforced  by  her  genuine  mistrust  of  emo- 
tion, and  by  a  kind  of  fatalistic  instinct.  Though  she 
had  never  before  used  her  power  to  separate  lovers,  show- 
ing them  the  mercies  of  indifference,  her  very  deliberate- 
ness  in  this  case  had  told  her  not  so  much  that  she 
wished  to  win  Robert,  as  that  she  herself  was  won. 

Paul  Mallory's  face  rose  before  her,  its  somewhat 
negative  goodness  suggestive  of  illimitable  monotony. 
She  wondered  why  goodness  was  so  often  lacking  in 
color,  why  people  were  all  alike  in  paradise,  but  retained 
their  splendid  differences  in  the  circles  of  the  inferno. 

Her  father's  heavy  step  awoke  her  from  her  reverie. 

"  Where's  mother  ?  "  he  said,  pausing  in  the  doorway. 

"  She  is  at  a  charity  musicale — the  kind  at  which 
everybody  looks  so  glad  they're  wealthy." 

He  crossed  the  room,  and  stood  for  a  moment  by  her, 
his  hand  resting  affectionately  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Season's  begun,  eh !  I  saw  that  young  Mallory 
leaving  the  house,  looking  solemn  as  an  owl.  I  bet  dol- 
lars to  doughnuts  you've  been  fooling  with  him." 

"  He  asked  me  to  marry  him,"  Olivia  said. 

"  He  did,  eh !  and  he  belongs  to  the  big  Mallory 
family,  doesn't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Why,  you're  coming  on,  Olivia.  You're  a  match 
for  any  of  'em.  It  will  be  a  dook  next,  and  your  mother 
will  have  a  coronet  on  her  note-paper,"  he  said  com- 
placently. 

Olivia  laughed. 

"  She  wouldn't  be  entitled  to  use  it,  dear.  No,  you'll 
84 


THE    CITY 

never  be  father-in-law  to  a  duke."  She  paused,  then 
added : 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question.  Did  James  Erskine 
sell  out  to  you  absolutely? " 

"  Yes,  he  did,  just  in  the  nick  of  time,  too.  He  saved 
his  skin,  that's  all." 

"  Not  much  capital,  then?  " 

"  Depends  on  what  you  call  much.  I  guess  he  set 
his  son  up  on  some  of  it.  Have  you  seen  the  Doctor 
since  he  came  to  town?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No ;  he  hasn't  called."  She  paused,  then  added, 
"  I  am  glad  Mr.  Erskine  sold  out.  I  didn't  want  you 
to  gobble  him  up." 

"  Not  a  big  mouthful,"  Winwood  said  with  a  little 
grunt.  "  An  old-fashioned  business  man  hasn't  any  right 
to  be  in  business." 

The  reflection  seemed  to  awaken  other  reminiscences 
not  wholly  pleasant,  for  the  capitalist  continued  to 
grumble  half  audibly. 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  father?" 

"  Not  on  one  of  those  spider-legged  chairs.  The 
library  for  me." 

"  Then,  if  you'll  excuse  me,  I'll  go  and  write  a  note." 

She  crossed  the  hall  to  a  little  study,  and  sitting  down 
at  a  desk  began  to  write.  She  tore  up  sheet  after  sheet, 
and  finally  wrote  three  lines: 

"  I  miss  you  enough  to  tell  you  so,  my  friend.  What 
you  and  Brooke  give  me  is  a  rare  enough  thing  in  my 
life.  Come  soon. 

"  OLIVIA." 


CHAPTER   XI 

BROOKE'S  first  impression  as  she  entered  the  office,  to 
which  she  was  admitted  by  a  crooked-featured  boy,  all 
suspicion  and  freckles,  was  of  an  abnormally  high  room 
with  vast  dirty  windows  which  dimmed  the  light  already 
made  precious  by  the  close  proximity  of  tall  buildings; 
of  an  atmosphere  thick  and  faintly  blue  with  cigar  smoke ; 
of  a  row  of  tense  figures  bending  over  a  long  table. 
Beyond  this  table  were  a  set  of  offices,  into  which  un- 
healthy looking  men  were  hurrying  with  perturbed  ex- 
pressions and  invariably  coming  out  with  expressions 
still  more  perturbed.  Innumerable  telephones  seemed  to 
be  ringing,  and  above  the  hubbub  Brooke  distinctly  heard 
a  clear,  ironical  voice  swearing  slowly,  but  with  enormous 
emphasis,  down  a  speaking  tube. 

All  this  she  observed  from  the  chair  near  the  door, 
into  which  the  office  boy  had  put  her  before  he  took  her 
letter  of  introduction  to  the  managing  editor.  Alec 
Kempton  had  written  it.  Alec  had  once  lived  in  Trent- 
hampton,  but  was  now  Sunday  editor  of  a  city  paper. 
He  and  his  wife  Ethelberta  lived  in  a  flat  in  the  vast 
northern  wilderness  of  the  town,  and  Brooke  and  Robert 
were  to  dine  with  them  that  evening. 

As  she  saw  the  office  boy  returning  to  her  with  a 
languid  step  suggestive  of  blue  uniforms  a  shiver  went 
through  her.  She  gave  a  little  nervous  cough  to  be 
sure  that  her  throat  was  clear  for  speaking. 

"  Come  this  way,"  he  said  wearily. 

As  she  passed  in  front  of  the  reporters'  table  a  com- 
86 


THE     CITY 

posite  scowl  went  down  the  line  which,  in  lieu  of  a  first 
and  last  greeting,  was  to  be  replaced  thereafter  and  for- 
ever by  a  composite  look  of  perfect  indifference.  Brooke 
felt  that  the  old  hymn,  "  Oh,  to  be  nothing,  nothing!  " 
would  be  peculiarly  appropriate  to  the  impersonal  condi- 
tions of  a  newspaper  office.  Alec's  words  rang  in  her 
ears,  "  Never  ask  a  question  if  you  can  help  it,  never 
make  a  comment,  never  show  feeling." 

The  managing  editor  had  hair  which  stood  straight 
up,  the  keenest  blue  eyes,  and  that  look  of  aged  youth 
characteristic  of  everybody  in  the  office,  an  over-bright, 
sleepless,  consumed  appearance,  as  if  they  would  all  die 
in  their  thirties,  with  their  ears  to  telephones  and  with 
big  cigars  in  their  mouths. 

The  great  man  looked  intently  at  her  for  a  moment, 
asked  her  three  or  four  questions,  all  the  while  tapping 
his  desk  with  a  stump  of  a  pencil,  and  keeping  up  a 
tattoo  with  his  foot  on  the  bare  floor.  He  seemed  eaten 
up  with  an  intensity  of  energy  which  was  like  the  inex- 
orable workings  of  a  fully  charged  machine.  Brooke  felt 
that  she  must  vanish  quickly  or  the  machine  would 
go  off. 

"  Well,  report  to-morrow,  then,  at  eleven.  Good 
afternoon,  Miss  Peyton." 

It  was  over.  She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  her  heart 
again  beat  naturally.  Only  the  world-weary  expression 
of  the  office  boy  kept  her  from  smiling  at  him  as  she 
passed  him  in  his  horrid  little  cage,  where  he  sat  biting 
viciously  at  an  apple  and  reading  a  penny-dreadful. 

She  went  through  the  big  marble  corridors  as  if  on 
wings.  Outside,  a  crisp,  golden  October  day  was  dying 
amid  vast  splendors  thrown  up  against  the  monumental 
buildings,  those  walls  of  canons  the  antipodes  of  nature's 

8? 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

architecture.  The  wonder  of  this  city  was  increasing 
upon  Brooke,  and  as  she  stood  now  for  an  instant  watch- 
ing the  surging  throngs  that  swept  by  her  like  the  tumults 
of  a  dream;  as  she  saw  the  last  light  fade  from  the 
heights  above  her,  and  blue  fires  flash  out  suddenly 
through  the  soft,  thick,  dusty  violet  of  the  enveloping 
atmosphere,  the  poetry  of  it  surmounted  whatever  it  might 
hold  of  sordidness  or  tragedy.  She  rejoiced  to  be  a  part 
of  this  throbbing,  battling  life,  forgetting  in  that  moment 
her  first  three  weeks  of  discouragement,  homesickness, 
and  doubt  of  the  wisdom  of  a  venture  whose  determining 
course  was  not  altogether  clear  to  her. 

Robert  was  to  call  for  her  at  the  "  studio  "  where  she 
was  living  with  her  Aunt  Angelica,  a  publisher's  reader, 
and  the  type  of  a  spinster  found,  perhaps,  only  in  the 
metropolis,  a  woman  who  at  forty  has  earned  all  the 
privileges  of  a  matron  by  her  single-handed  battle  with 
the  hostile  forces  of  the  town. 

The  big  room  with  its  north  light,  its  gray  denim 
walls  covered  sparsely  with  pictures  in  gray  tones,  its 
books,  its  casts,  its  "  intellectual  "  look,  seemed  to  Brooke 
typical  of  her  aunt's  life,  from  which  all  the  warmer 
colors  had  been,  perforce,  eliminated,  leaving  a  dry,  clear 
residuum,  eminently  serviceable,  but  to  the  betrothed  girl 
unspeakably  dreary.  She  had  met  many  of  her  aunt's 
friends  since  her  arrival,  women  who  were  "  doing  some- 
thing " ;  but  to  Brooke,  even  their  enthusiasms  seemed 
substitutions,  as  if  they  flew  about  so  feverishly  because 
they  had  missed,  either  by  their  own  will  or  through 
necessity,  the  greatest  of  all  destinies.  When  she  was 
with  them  she  felt  her  own  coming  joy  of  wifehood  upon 
her  forehead  like  a  crown. 

She  found  her  aunt  making  tea.  Angelica  Peyton 
88 


THE     CITY 

looked  like  her  poet  brother,  Charles,  but  her  face  held 
an  element  of  strength  which  his  lacked.  She  would 
grow  handsomer  as  she  grew  older,  her  iron-gray  hair, 
her  glasses,  her  erect  carriage  and  severely  plain  dress, 
already  lending  her  an  air  of  distinction.  She  looked  up 
with  a  pleased  expression  as  Brooke  entered.  The  girl 
had  become  a  bright  bit  of  color  in  her  life. 

Brooke  related  her  experiences,  clothing  in  fresh  form 
what  was  to  Angelica  an  old  story. 

"  I  can't  understand  how  you  find  it  picturesque,"  she 
said  at  the  end  of  her  niece's  rhapsody.  "  It's  a  great, 
ugly,  noisy  place." 

"  But  did  you  never  see  the  poetry  of  it  ?  "  Brooke 
asked. 

"  Years  ago  I  made  a  desperate  fight  to  preserve  the 
sense  of  romance,  but  I  ended  with  discovering  every 
sterility  the  city  has  to  offer.  Two  years  ago  I  gave  up 
the  last  farce  of  trying  to  imagine  that  I  had  a  home 
because  I  was  living  with  two  or  three  women  in  an 
apartment.  When  I  began  to  live  alone,  and  acknowl- 
edged the  fact  that  my  room  was  a  cell,  and  I  a  member 
of  that  order  of  spinster-nuns  whose  rule  is  compre- 
hended in  the  duties  of  bread-winning,  and  whose  patron 
saint  is  this  iron  town,  I  felt  better." 

"  Did  you  never  want  to  marry  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  did.  But  I  never  attracted  men.  Per- 
haps I  was  too  independent.  I  had  to  be.  I  had  no  one 
to  look  after  me." 

Brooke  sat  silent  wondering  what  kind  of  a  desert  life 
would  be  without  love. 

"  Robert  is  coming  for  me  after  his  clinic,"  she  said. 
"  We  are  going  to  dine  with  Alec  Kempton  and  Ethel- 
berta." 

7  89 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  Poor  Ethelberta !  "  Angelica  said  with  a  grim  smile. 
"  The  last  time  I  saw  her  she  told  me  she  was  down  on 
the  black  list  of  the  apartment  agencies,  as  a  woman 
likely  at  any  time  to  have  a  new  baby.  The  flat  they 
have  now  is  too  small,  and  they  can't  get  in  anywhere 
else,  because  of  the  size  of  their  family." 

After  a  while  Robert  came  for  her,  and  they  started 
on  the  long,  somewhat  perilous  journey  to  the  far 
north.  Under  his  surface  good  spirits,  Brooke  dis- 
cerned signs  of  fatigue.  Contrary  to  her  usual  custom 
she  questioned  him. 

"  You  are  not  working  too  hard  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed !  If  I  hadn't  fitted  up  a  laboratory  in 
that  office  of  mine  I'd  go  mad  waiting  there.  I  look 
forward  to  the  clinics  as  if  they  were  special  performances 
of  grand  opera." 

"  And  the  hospital  appointment  ?  " 

"You  mean  as  out-physician?  I'm  pretty  sure  of 
getting  that.  Dr.  Gorton  has  a  number  of  pulls,  and 
he  has  been  awfully  decent  and  kind  considering  how 
much  he  wanted  me  to  remain  in  Trenthampton." 

"  Is  your  home  news  good?  "  Brooke  ventured. 

"  My  mother  writes  that  my  father  wanders  about 
like  a  lost  soul.  The  sale  of  the  business  was  a  terrible 
trial  to  him." 

The  question  was  unfortunate,  for  Robert  went  into 
a  brooding  silence  from  which  he  was  only  roused  by 
the  necessity  of  showing  some  appreciation  of  the  elabo- 
rate preparations  made  in  Brooke's  and  his  honor  by 
Ethelberta  Kempton,  who  gave  her  townsfolk  a  greedy 
welcome.  She  was  a  little,  mercurial  woman  with  very 
natural  tastes  and  instincts  striving  constantly  to  break 
through  the  limitations  which  hedge  in  middle-class  ex- 


THE    CITY 

istence  in  the  city.  With  her  arms  about  Brooke  she 
told  her  in  one  breath  that  she  was  never  so  glad  to  see 
any  one  in  her  life,  that  the  janitor  had  served  a  term 
in  Sing  Sing,  and  that  the  dropsical  plums  on  the  dining- 
room  ceiling  had  almost  driven  her  and  Alec  to  suicide. 

"  Say  you  don't  like  this  horrible  town,  that's  a  dear! 
Alec  says  we're  making  more  money,  but  then  we  have 
so  many  more  ways  to  spend  it,  and  no  comfort!  Dar- 
ling, just  look  at  this  mouse-trap.  Everything  folds  up 
except  the  radiators.  I'm  not  joking.  And  just  think  of 
those  acres  and  acres  about  Trenthampton.  The  dear 
place!  Oh,  Brooke,  there  are  days  when  I'm  crazy  for 
a  sight  of  the  mountains !  " 

She  babbled  on,  as  if  it  gave  relief  to  an  over-full 
heart.  After  a  time  Alec  came  in,  a  long-legged,  narrow- 
chested  man  of  thirty-five,  with  good-natured  eyes,  and 
the  alert  look  of  the  newspaper  editor,  now  dimmed  a 
little  with  fatigue.  But  after  the  somewhat  ceremonious 
dinner  at  which  he  was  forced  to  relax,  his  youth  seemed 
to  come  back  to  him ;  and  by  dessert  they  were  all  very 
merry  together,  though  Brooke  was  conscious  that  Rob- 
ert's good  spirits  were  more  or  less  forced. 

They  exchanged  their  plans  and  hopes  and  ambitions. 
Ethelberta  and  Alec  as  pioneers  related  their  experiences, 
the  summing  up  of  the  whole  matter  seeming  to  be  that 
the  city  was  like  a  beautiful  woman  of  the  world.  If 
you  were  diffident,  she  scorned  or  overlooked  you.  If 
you  were  daring,  you  might  conquer  her. 

When  Brooke  and  Robert  went  out  into  the  night, 
both  were  for  a  long  time  silent.  He  spoke  at  last  sud- 
denly and  impetuously: 

"  Dear,  I  couldn't  live  as  Alec  and  Ethelberta  do.  I'd 
rather  be  dead." 

91 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  That  isn't  very  kind  to  them  when  they've  just  en- 
tertained us." 

"  I  don't  mean  it  in  a  personal  sense.  What  I  mean 
is,  I  couldn't  endure  the  littleness  of  such  a  life.  Alec 
had  no  right  to  obliterate  Ethelberta  in  this  town.  Only 
the  rich  can  be  really  metropolitans." 

"But  what  of  you  and  me — so  dramatically  poor?" 
she  said  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  Ah,  but  we're  not  married." 

The  words  chilled  her. 

"  But  suppose  we  never  get  rich— or  famous  ?  "  she 
replied  with  a  little  break  in  her  voice. 

In  an  instant  he  was  himself  again,  self-reproach  and 
tenderness  in  his  face. 

"  Dear,  I'm  tired,  and  the  gulf  between  my  ambitions 
and  where  I  am  now  seems  so  great  to-night.  I  would 
give  you  everything,  everything  in  the  world." 

"  Your  love  is  enough,"  she  answered. 

He  made  no  reply. 

At  her  door  he  said,  with  an  effort  to  appear  entirely 
unconcerned : 

"  I  had  a  note  from  Olivia  this  morning.  It  appears 
that  she  thinks  of  us,  even  though  she  is  in  town.  Come 
under  the  electric  light.  I  want  you  to  read  it." 

A  shadow  passed  over  Brooke's  face  as  she  read  the 
note.  She  handed  it  back  to  him  without  a  word. 

"  She — she  seems  really  to  miss  us,"  Robert  said. 

Brooke  nodded. 

"  Yes,  it  is  very  friendly." 

"  Can  you  go  up  with  me  there  to-morrow  evening?  " 

"  I  am  going  with  Aunt  Angelica  to  a  concert." 

"The  next  night,  then?" 

"  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  wait  for  me.  I  don't  owe 
92 


THE    CITY 

Olivia  a  call.  Please  go  to-morrow  night,  Robert.  I'll 
— I'll  enjoy  the  concert  better  if  I  know  you  are  being 
taken  care  of." 

He  laughed  uneasily. 

"  Olivia  has  a  genius  for  playing  hostess." 

"  Go  and  be  guest  then." 

He  hesitated. 

"  Don't  take  my  mood  to-night  too  seriously,  sweet- 
heart. We'll  win  out  together." 

"  I  can  do  anything  with  you  near  me,"  she  answered 
in  a  low  voice. 

He  raised  his  head,  looking  upward  as  if  to  see  in  the 
night-depths  an  open  way,  but  the  electric  light  blotted 
out  the  stars. 


93 


CHAPTER   XII 

ROBERT  had  purposely  refrained  from  calling  on 
Olivia  because  the  episode  of  the  rose  could  by  no  jug- 
glery be  fitted  into  the  incidents  of  friendship.  The 
alternative  he  would  not  acknowledge. 

A  minor  reason  was  his  desire  to  establish  himself 
on  a  firmer  basis  in  town  before  renewing  an  acquaintance 
in  which  he  was  constantly  aware  of  his  unequal  for- 
tunes. The  sale  of  the  business,  however  it  had  de- 
pressed his  father,  had  been  to  him  a  source  of  keen 
pleasure,  because  it  removed  between  him  and  Olivia  a 
barrier  of  which  he  had  always  had  a  humiliating  con- 
sciousness. To  be  clear  of  Winwood  was  the  first  step 
toward  independence. 

Yet  the  fact  that  he  had  longed  for  its  removal  was 
the  matrix  of  self-accusations.  That  Brooke  was  not  all 
in  all  to  him,  seemed  to  him  all  the  more  inexplicable 
because  she  was  still  the  beloved  friend  of  his  childhood, 
holding  complete  her  fair  and  tender  charm,  her  many 
consolations.  He  had  to  acknowledge,  however,  that 
beyond  the  last  comfort,  the  last  tenderness  she  could 
offer  him  was  a  region  of  magnificent  distances  ruled  by 
a  woman  who  might  be  saint  or  coquette,  but  who 
possessed  to  a  high  degree  the  divine  power  of  troubling 
souls. 

His  resolution  of  resisting  her  influence  being  of  the 
mind,  and  not  of  the  heart,  crumbled  before  the  power 
of  her  little  note.  After  all  she  might  be  in  real  need  of 
his  and  Brooke's  friendship. 

When  he  called  on  the  following  evening  the  footman 
94 


THE    CITY 

ushered  him,  not  into  the  drawing-room,  but  into  a  little 
octagonal  study  or  library-boudoir,  where,  it  would  ap- 
pear, Olivia  had  for  once  consented  to  express  herself. 
The  gray-tinted  walls  were  divided  between  Whistler  and 
Goya.  The  ineffable  grays  and  blues  of  an  Eastern  rug 
were  repeated  in  the  hangings.  The  fireplace  mantel  of 
carved  black  oak  bore  vases  and  jars  of  the  same  ancient 
blue,  which  were  filled  on  this  evening  with  sprays  of 
mignonette  and  narcissus.  On  the  rug  before  the  fire  lay 
a  large  Angora  cat,  black  as  the  plague  of  darkness. 

The  warmth  and  silence  of  the  room  closed  in  upon 
Robert  like  a  curtain,  and  invited  reverie.  When  he 
looked  up,  at  last,  Olivia  was  sitting  opposite  to  him,  her 
eyes  full  of  laughter. 

"  I  was  wondering  when  you  would  deign  to  notice 
me.  Were  you  hypnotized  by  the  fire?  I  can  scarcely 
blame  you.  Those  driftwood  flames  are  beautiful." 

He  had  risen,  an  embarrassment  in  his  face  which 
seemed  caused  by  something  of  more  importance  than  her 
mysterious  entrance. 

"  When  did  you  come  in  ?  Your  feet  must  be  winged 
like  Mercury's." 

"  Never  mind  when.  I  found  a  guest  whose  spirit 
was  apparently  a  thousand  miles  away.  As  a  courteous 
hostess  I  could  only  be  silent  and  await  his  return." 

Robert  smiled  grimly. 

"  I  have  never  left  this  room.  What  is  the  name  of 
your  Grimalkin  here?  He  has  ignored  me  like  a  prince." 

For  answer  she  stooped  over  and  drew  the  mass  of 
black  fur  into  her  lap,  where  it  blended  with  her  dress 
so  perfectly  that  only  the  round  golden  eyes  showed  the 
living  creature. 

"  Dr.  Erskine,  allow  me  to  introduce  to  you  Dr.  Faus- 
95 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

tus  of  ancient  lineage  and  illimitable  wisdom.  '  He 
knows  what  Rameses  knows.  He  has  seen  the  mystery 
hid  under  Egypt's  pyramid,'  "  she  quoted  quaintly. 

Robert  leaned  over  to  stroke  the  cat.  His  hand 
touched  Olivia's,  and  he  drew  back  suddenly. 

"  Why  did  you  not  bring  Brooke  ?  " 

"  You  owe  her  a  call,  do  you  not  ?  "  Robert  said  with 
a  touch  of  resentment. 

Olivia  sighed. 

"  So  she  is  not  yet  my  friend.  I  did  not  know  Brooke 
was  so  conventional.  Is  this  what  the  town  is  doing  to 
her — and  to  you,  Robert  ?  " 

He  looked  up,  trying  to  meet  her  eyes  steadily. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  if  I  may  ask  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  you  have  not  shown  yourself  very 
friendly  to  me  since  you  came  here." 

"  Does  it  make  any  difference  to  you  ?  "  he  asked, 
aware  of  the  clumsiness  of  the  question  as  soon  as  he 
had  asked  it. 

"  Of  course  it  does,"  she  answered  frankly.  "  You 
do  not  want  your  friends  to  forget  you." 

"  I  did  not  forget  you." 

She  laughed. 

"  Your  way  of  showing  your  remembrance  was  singu- 
larly negative. — Let  me  remind  you,  Faustus,  that  your 
paws  are  not  wholly  of  velvet." 

The  cat  had  leaped  lazily  to  her  shoulder,  and  was 
perched  there,  emphasizing  the  whiteness  of  her  bare 
arm,  over  which  his  plume  of  a  tail  swept  grandly.  After 
a  moment  of  delicate  poise,  he  made  a  noiseless  spring  to 
a  cabinet  just  behind  her,  where  he  curled  himself  up 
with  infinite  comfort  among  some  images  of  ivory. 

"  I  have  been  working  hard,"  Robert  said. 
96 


THE    CITY 

"  Where  is  your  office  ?  " 

"  It  is  in  an  old-fashioned  part  of  the  town,  but  it  is 
near  my  clinics,  and  the  difference  in  rent  is  quite  an 
item  when  you're  just  setting  up." 

"  Of  course,"  Olivia  said,  a  note  of  sympathy  in  her 
voice  that  at  once  transformed  her  into  the  practical 
woman.  Robert  found  it  hard  to  resist  her  when  she 
entered  into  the  moods  and  situations  of  persons  whose 
experiences  must  have  been  difficult  for  her  to  under- 
stand, even  in  imagination. 

"  Tell  me  of  your  hospital  work.  Does  it  appeal  to 
your  dramatic  sense  ?  to  your  heart  ?  or  to  your  head  ?  " 

Robert  smiled.  He  wished  that  Brooke  would  ask 
him  such  questions,  forgetting  that  she  had  long  passed 
the  stage  when  she  analyzed  her  lover. 

"  I  think  it  appeals  to  the  whole  of  me.  Healing 
seems  to  demand  something  far  beyond  the  mere  knowl- 
edge which  the  healer  possesses." 

"  You  believe,  then,  in  establishing  personal  relations 
with  your  patients  ?  " 

"  In  so  far  as  such  relations  would  be  stimulating  to 
them.  Often  their  souls  are  ill  or  starved,  when  they 
believe  it  is  their  bodies." 

Olivia  smiled. 

"  So  you  believe  in  souls  ?  " 

"  Do  you  not  ?  "  he  counter-questioned. 

"  I  have  never  been  uncomfortably  aware  of  my  own. 
People  who  possess  '  souls  '  seem  to  be  in  a  state  of  un- 
rest. I  would  rather  be  poised  on  a  low  plane  than  tot- 
tering on  a  high  one,"  she  added  with  a  little  laugh. 

Robert's  face  grew  grave. 

"  But  you  are  made  for  the  high  plane,  for  the  things 
of  the  spirit." 

97 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

She  gave  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  I  don't  believe  half  of  you  people  know  what  you 
mean  when  you  talk  about  the  things  of  the  spirit :  except 
something  perhaps  that  is  infinitely  more  of  a  luxury 
and  an  indulgence  than  any  pleasure  the  senses  offer." 

Contempt  was  in  her  voice  and  face.  Robert  had  the 
sensation  of  wishing  to  look  over  and  rearrange  his  cabi- 
net of  ideals. 

"  You  don't  believe  in  the  sincerities  of  religious  feel- 
ing, then?"  he  ventured. 

"  When  it  leads  to  action,  yes ;  when  it  is  to  get  rid 
of  a  load  of  superfluous  emotion,  no,"  she  said  impa- 
tiently. 

"  It  is  at  least  an  innocent  way  of  getting  rid  of  it," 
Robert  answered. 

To  his  surprise  a  slow  flush  crept  up  her  forehead. 
An  instant's  anger  shone  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  would  rather  offer  to  the  gods  a  withheld  than 
a  rejected  emotion." 

"  Then,"  Robert  said  boldly,  "  they  are  sure  of  a  per- 
fect gift.  You  have  always  withheld  your  emotions." 

She  smiled. 

"  You  are  presumptuous  in  assuming  that  I  have  any 
to  withhold.  I  fear  you've  been  trained  in  the  romantic 
school,  Robert." 

The  slight  mockery  in  her  voice  turned  clear,  hard 
daylight  on  the  conversation. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Like  another  friend  of  mine,  you  will  always  see 
things  as  you  wish  them  to  be,  not  as  they  are." 

He  bit  his  lips  in  vexation. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  knew  so  much  about  me,"  he 
said  with  resentment. 

98 


THE    CITY 

"  I  like  you,  and  because  I  like  you  I'm  tempted  to 
study  you,"  she  answered  with  a  gentleness  that  dis- 
armed him.  "  After  all,"  she  added,  "  we  are  all  seeking 
something.  It  may  seem  to  you  a  crazy  simile,  but  this 
big  town  sometimes  appears  to  me  like  a  vast  unfinished 
cathedral  of  half-formed  thoughts  and  incomplete  experi- 
ences. There  are  crypts  and  towers,  forms  of  saints  and 
devils,  crucifixes  and  strange  shapes,  shadows  and  altar 
lights,  Misereres  and  Te  Deums" 

She  seemed  to  be  thinking  aloud.  Robert  resented 
the  sympathy  her  words  aroused  in  him.  What  if  she 
should  triumph  over  him  in  the  exalted  places  of  human 
nature?  He  wished  to  put  her  back  in  her  little  net  of 
coquetry,  that  manlike  he  might  feel  his  superiority  even 
while  he  yielded  to  her  charm. 

"  I  haven't  a  poet's  imagination,"  he  commented, 
"  and  I  can't  follow  you." 

She  laughed,  quite  unperturbed. 

"Did  I  ask  you  to?  My  little  journeys  are  always 
taken  alone,  Robert.  Remember  that." 

"  What  place  do  you  occupy  in  the  cathedral,  if  I 
may  ask  ?  " 

"  The  tourist  with  a  Baedeker." 

"  I  might  have  known  it,"  he  said,  rising  to  take  his 
leave. 

"  I  am  sending  an  invitation  to  Brooke  to  dine  with 
us  on  Friday  of  next  week.  Will  you  also  honor  me 
with  your  presence  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  charmed." 

"  And  you  say  it  as  if  you  were  reversing  the  salva- 
tion of  my  dinner.  Meanwhile  will  you  take  me  to  a 
clinic?" 

"  No,  I  will  not,"  he  answered  with  emphasis. 
99 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

She  laughed. 

"  Bravo !  Childe  Harold !  Always  say  '  no '  to  me,  it 
will  be  your  salvation. — Dr.  Faustus,  get  your  broomstick 
and  escort  Dr.  Erskine  home." 


100 


CHAPTER   XIII 

OLIVIA  went  with  him  for  a  much  longer  distance 
on  his  down-town  journey  than  he  desired,  as  if  she  her- 
self had  undertaken  the  errand  of  the  cat.  Her  dark  eyes 
seemed  to  watch  him,  ready  to  mock  should  he  take  his 
tumult  of  feeling  too  seriously.  He  tried  to  shake  off 
the  haunting  presence,  lest  on  joining  Brooke  she  should 
discover  that  he  had  not  come  to  her  alone. 

She  had  written  him  that,  instead  of  going  to  the 
concert,  she  was  to  report  a  reception  given  by  a  church 
club  to  a  visiting  Cardinal.  The  note  was  rosy  with  her 
enthusiasm,  but  its  news  filled  him  with  a  vague  sense 
of  self-accusation.  He  had  expected  that  Brooke  would 
write  for  the  magazines  in  the  seclusion  of  the  studio, 
taking  her  new  life  with  more  or  less  unconcern.  Least 
of  all  did  he  wish  her  to  enter  upon  the  hard  and  un- 
lovely career  of  a  newspaper  woman.  But  she  had  met 
each  of  his  opposing  arguments  with  clear  logic.  Since 
she  had  come  to  town  to  try  her  fortune,  she  must  act 
as  if  her  daily  bread  were  in  reality  solely  dependent  upon 
her  own  efforts.  Robert,  listening  to  her  statement  of 
the  case,  felt  a  sudden  jealous  thrill,  as  if  he  had  delib- 
erately provided  her  with  substitutes  for  romance. 

Yet  Brooke  showed  no  signs  of  replacing  love  with 
personal  ambition.  It  was  evident  to  him,  too  evident 
sometimes,  that  all  she  did  was  done  for  him. 

To-night  he  was  eager  to  shut  out  unpleasant  mem- 
ories with  the  walls  of  her  affection.  The  moaning  of 
strange  winds  sends  even  adventurous  feet  to  the  fireside. 

101 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

He  crossed  the  square  bounded  by  the  newspaper 
buildings,  the  poetry  of  the  city  night  blending  with  the 
lingering  phantasies  of  a  bizarre  evening.  The  electric 
lights  cast  strange  shadows,  in  and  out  of  whose  black- 
ness moved  figures  which  had  exchanged  their  common- 
place character  for  something  of  the  mystery  which  in- 
vests all  nocturnal  wanderings.  Southward  an  old  church 
guarded  its  graves,  its  dwarfed  spire  dumbly  suggestiv 
of  what  forces  were  now  paramount.  The  Beatific  Vision 
had  become  the  crucial  million  dollars,  beyond  which  all 
things  were  possible. 

These  ideas  passed  through  Robert's  mind  as  through 
the  mind  of  an  onlooker  rather  than  a  judge.  In  Paris 
he  had  never  thought  of  money-making  except  as  a  minor 
incident  of  life.  It  was  impossible — the  city  was  too  gay  ! 
To  sit  at  a  little  table  in  front  of  a  cafe,  in  the  company 
of  artists  or  writers,  was  to  be  quite  content,  especially 
if  the  sunshine  were  warm.  In  the  first  city  of  his  own 
country  he  found  himself  coming  under  the  spell  of  an 
ambition  which,  though  aided  in  its  growth  by  that  city's 
genius,  had  its  roots  primarily  in  poetry.  Olivia,  in  sur- 
rounding herself  with  beauty,  had  shown  him  what 
wealth  was  for. 

He  found  Brooke  waiting  for  him  in  one  of  the  upper 
corridors  of  the  building,  which,  despite  the  lateness  of 
the  hour,  palpitated  with  life  from  its  subterranean 
chambers  to  the  summit  of  its  towers. 

"  You  have  emerged  whole  and  sound  ?  "  he  asked 
her  with  a  smile,  noting  with  satisfaction  that  she  looked 
confident  and  happy. 

"  My  first  copy  has  gone  in,"  she  said  gaily.  "  They 
were  so  kind  to  me  at  the  reception,  those  nice  priests. 
They  told  me  things  without  my  asking.  And  the  Car- 

102 


THE     CITY 

dinal  was  like  a  Titian  portrait.  He  made  me  think  of 
your  letters  from  abroad,  and  his  voice  sounded  as  if  he 
had  spoken  nothing  but  Latin  all  his  life.  They  had  a 
delicious  supper,  but  I  hadn't  time  to  stay  for  it,  and  I 
was  so  hungry." 

"  Are  you  hungry  now,  dear  ?  Shall  we  hunt  up 
some  little  restaurant?  I  feel  like  night-prowling!  " 

"  Oh,  let's,"  she  said  joyously.  "  Isn't  this  town  in- 
spiring? "  she  added  as  they  went  out  into  a  street  almost 
as  crowded  as  if  the  noon  sun  shone  upon  it.  "  I'm 
beginning  to  be  glad  we  came,  Robert." 

"  You  weren't  glad  at  first?  " 

"  No,  I  missed  so  many  things,  and  mother's  face 
haunted  me,  as  I  last  saw  it." 

"  But  she  was  smiling,"  Robert  said. 

"  They  always  smile  when  they  think  you  want  them 
to.  Oh,  what  a  queer,  dear  place !  " 

He  had  taken  her  into  a  little  German  hall,  where 
much  art  had  been  shown  in  the  arrangement  of  pewter 
flasks  and  platters  above  the  black-oak  wainscoting,  and 
of  the  great  tankards  above  the  fireplace.  The  frieze, 
smoke-dimmed,  represented  scenes  from  the  Nibelungen- 
lied.  About  the  little  round  tables  many  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  people  were  seated,  apparently  discussing 
everything  from  politics  and  the  play  to  the  latest  system 
of  philosophy  that  had  rolled  cloud-like  out  of  Germany 
to  obscure  the  spiritual  vision  of  other  lands. 

Many  glances  were  cast  in  the  direction  of  Brooke 
and  Robert  as  they  made  their  way  to  a  table.  These 
two  young  people  carried  about  them  the  bright,  inde- 
finable atmosphere  of  poets  to  whom  all  aspects  of  the 
city  are  as  yet  but  food  for  speculation  or  enthusiasm. 

Brooke  looked  about  her  for  the  expected  types. 
103 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  The  man  at  the  third  table  from  us  sits  opposite 
me  at  the  reporters'  desk.  He  loaned  me  his  paste-pot 
to-day." 

Robert  laughed. 

"  What  an  inscrutable,  surprised-at-nothing  face.  He 
doesn't  look  as  if  he  were  rolling  in  wealth." 

"  I  imagine  he  is  poor.  He  lunched  on  apples ;  but 
I  don't  think  he  cares." 

"  Why  should  he?  With  his  pipe  and  that  little  stein 
of  beer  he  has  probably  been  off  in  the  Elysian  Meadows 
this  half-hour." 

"  Tell  me  about  Olivia." 

"  She  is  going  to  ask  you  to  dinner." 

"  I  have  no  gown  grand  enough  for  the  occasion.  I 
will  decline  on  the  plea  that  I  can  not  leave  my  work." 

"  But,  Brooke,  you  are  not  going  to  be  haughty  and 
unfriendly  just  because  we  are  not  in  Trenthampton  ?  " 

Brooke  looked  apologetic.  "  I  don't  want  to  judge 
for  you,  Robert,  but  she  is  in  a  circle  where  a  thousand 
a  year  will  take  you,  but  where  ten  thousand  a  year  won't 
take  a  woman." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  said  impatiently. 

"  I  mean  the  difference  between  a  black  coat  and  a 
trousseau,  between  a  street-car  and  a  carriage,  between 
an  overcoat  and  an  opera-cloak." 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  so  worldly." 

She  smiled. 

"  I'm  not  worldly.    I'm  just  a  woman." 

"  But  you  accepted  Olivia's  hospitality  in  Trenthamp- 
ton, and  you  returned  it  without  any  question." 

"  Of  course,  because  I  was  in  my  own  home,  and  I 
could  be  queen  there — presiding  over  chops  and  potatoes ! 
Here  everything  is  different.  Our  worlds  don't  touch." 

104 


THE     CITY 

"  But  your  friendship  for  her?" 

"  That  remains.  It  is  not  dependent  on  my  attend- 
ing her  dinner.  I  can  see  her  at  odd  times — the  beauti- 
ful, strange  lady,"  she  added,  half  under  her  breath. 

"  So  you  do — feel  her  fascination  ?  "  Robert  said. 

"  Of  course,"  Brooke  answered,  her  eyes  responsive. 
"  I  understand  the  charm  she  has  for  you,  Robert.  Please 
be  frank  about  it,  just  because  I  do  understand  it." 

"  You  are  wonderful,"  he  said  impetuously.  "  What 
other  woman  in  the  whole  wide  world  would  say  '  just 
because  I  do  understand  ' !  " 

She  was  silent,  suddenly  grave. 

"  My  dear,  I  haven't  hurt  you  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No ;  but  I  wish  I  couldn't  understand  things — 
couldn't  put  myself  in  your  place.  I  know  so  clearly 
what  all  that  beauty  means  to  you,  means  to  me." 

"  Don't  you  think,"  he  said  earnestly,  "  that  that  is 
just  the  great  strength  of  the  bond  between  us?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  little  catch  of  the 
breath.  "  Nothing  could  be  stronger  than  the  bond  be- 
tween us." 

"  And  our  life  here  will  cement  it,"  Robert  said. 
"  All  that  we  go  through  here  is  a  double  education. 
You  can't  say,"  he  added  jestingly,  "  as  you  did  of  Paris, 
that  this  is  your  rival." 

"  I  have  no  rivals,"  she  answered  bravely  and  proudly. 
"  Let  us  go  out  and  see  our  city,  Robert,  though  it  doesn't 
know  yet  it's  ours." 

He  laughed. 

"  Poor  old  town !  What  an  awakening  it  will  have 
some  day ! " 

They  walked  home  gaily,  the  explorer's  mood  strong 
8  105 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

upon  them.  The  two  miles  or  so  seemed  short  to  Brooke, 
for  Robert  was  at  his  best.  Their  little  frank  talk  had 
taken  the  evil  out  of  the  earlier  part  of  his  evening.  As 
he  said  good  night,  he  added : 

"And  you  will  go  to  the  dinner?  I  couldn't  enjoy 
it  if  you  weren't  there." 

"  I  will  go,  mi'lord,"  she  answered. 


106 


CHAPTER   XIV 

"  BUT  why  must  I  dine  with  these  people?" 

"  To  please  me." 

Mrs.  Mallory  sighed,  wishing  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  that  her  only  son  had  given  her  enough  anxiety 
to  justify  her  now  in  refusing  him  his  request.  Mothers 
whose  sons  frequented  the  demi-monde,  or  who,  by  their 
dissipations,  created  unbridgeable  gulfs  in  family  life, 
were  released  from  many  tyrannies  of  affection.  The 
whole  structure  of  Paul's  existence  was  of  that  stability 
which  rendered  opposition  to  his  wishes  difficult.  From 
childhood  he  had  been  studious,  deeply  religious,  and 
solemnly  exclusive,  regarding  his  high  birth  and  great 
wealth  as  being,  in  a  sense,  heaven's  own  creation.  His 
devotion  to  his  mother  was  a  part  of  his  amiable  creed, 
now  rendering  more  difficult  her  astonished  opposition. 

Astonishment  had  been  from  the  first  the  keynote  of 
her  attitude  toward  his  infatuation  for  Olivia  Winwood. 
Herself  of  a  fine  old  Dutch  family,  and  a  member  by 
marriage  of  one  of  those  city  families  which  antedate  the 
aristocracy  of  wealth,  she  was  amazed  that  Paul's  imag- 
ination, hitherto  scrupulously  kept  within  the  bounds  of 
his  own  circle,  should  have  been  fired  to  a  flame  that 
threatened  conflagration  by  the  daughter  of  the  latest 
Croesus.  For  a  long  time  she  had  refused  herself  even 
legitimate  glimpses  of  these  incredible  people,  until  the 
hour  arrived  when  she  could  not  help  seeing  them  be- 
cause, by  one  of  the  modern  miracles,  they  had  entered 
her  own  circle.  Then  Olivia's  beauty  and  twilight  man- 

107 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

ners  arousing  her  maternal  curiosity,  she  had  left  cards 
on  mother  and  daughter,  at  the  same  time  declaring  to 
Paul  that  this  act  marked  the  limit  of  her  graciousness. 
They  were  now  in  conflict  over  the  dinner  invitation. 

"  But  how  far  must  I  go  to  please  you?  " 

"  As  far  as  every  one  else  goes,  dear  mother  of  mine." 

"  Mob  rule,  as  usual.  On  what  possible  ground  can 
I  meet  these  people?  " 

"  On  the  ground  of  my  love  for  Olivia." 

A  look  of  pain  crossed  Mrs.  Mallory's  reserved,  hand- 
some features.  She  rose  and  went  to  a  window  over- 
looking the  avenue.  Tall  and  erect,  with  a  certain  elegant 
hardness  in  her  bearing,  she  turned  to  her  son  a  back 
of  stiff  protest. 

"  Your  love  for — Miss  Winwood,"  she  said  at  last 
slowly,  as  if  the  words  hurt  her.  "  I  am  to  understand, 
then,  that  you  are  really  in  love  with — this  young 
woman  ?  " 

Paul  flushed. 

"  You  speak  of  her  as  if  she  were  the  parlor-maid. 
She  is  an  uncrowned  queen." 

"  Have  you  told  your  jewelers  to  make  the  crown  ?  " 
she  asked  with  faint  satire. 

"  I  can't  until  she  gives  me  permission,"  he  said 
ruefully. 

His  mother  turned  to  him,  her  face  blank  with 
astonishment. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  asked  her  to 
marry  you  ?  " 

"  I  have,  and  she  has  refused." 

Mrs.  Mallory  sank  into  a  chair. 

"  Refused  you !  " 

"  Refused  me." 

108 


THE    CITY 

"  Does  she  know — does  she  realize " 

"  Who  and  what  we  are  ?  I  imagine  so.  She  is  not 
a  hermit." 

"  And  she  refused  you ! "  Mrs.  Mallory  repeated, 
struck  down  by  the  inexplicable,  until  something  like 
physical  weakness  possessed  her.  Her  finely  formed 
white  hands  moved  restlessly  over  the  carved  arms  of 
her  chair,  the  little  thread-like  lines  in  her  face  deepened. 

"  You  see,"  Paul  said  in  a  quiet  voice,  "  she  is  not 
the  ambitious  schemer  you  thought  her." 

"  Ah,  perhaps  she  is  only  putting  you  off  for  plans 
of  her  own.  Her  saying  '  no '  seems  to  me  like  a  mon- 
strous piece  of  coquetry.  She  was  brave  to  dare  it." 

"  I  will  wait  forever  for  her  '  yes.'  " 

His  mother  sighed. 

"  Apart  from  her  birth,  there  is  to  me  something  too 
unusual  in  her  look  and  manner.  I  should  fancy  her 
irreligious." 

"  She  can  not  be.    She  thinks  too  deeply." 

"  Deep  thinking  generally  produces  skeptics." 

He  smiled. 

"  You  accuse  your  son  of  shallowness  ?  " 

"  You  are  religious  by  inheritance,"  she  answered 
with  an  accent  of  pride.  "  With  an  archbishop  of  the 
Church  of  England  for  one  of  your  ancestors,  how  could 
you  be  otherwise?  The  crucifix  over  your  bed  has  been 
in  the  family  two  hundred  years." 

"  Well,  will  you  go  to  the  dinner?  " 

"  Since  she  has  refused  you,  yes." 

"  You  will  probably  meet  Miss  Winwood  and  her 
mother  this  afternoon  at  the  private  view  of  Marston's 
things." 

"  How  did  they  get  cards  ?  " 
109 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  Miss  Win  wood  is  a  capital  judge  of  pictures,  as 
Marston  very  well  knows." 

"  Well,  ring  for  the  carriage.  I  can't  miss  a  Marston 
afternoon  even  at  the  risk  of — "  She  paused.  The  look 
in  her  son's  face  was  a  barrier. 

A  few  moments  later  he  escorted  her  down  through 
the  great,  silent  house,  furnished  with  the  most  cherished 
treasures  of  successive  generations  of  the  family.  When 
they  were  in  the  carriage  he  laid  a  caressing  hand  on  hers. 

"  Dear,  try  to  understand.    She,  too.  is  an  aristocrat." 

His  mother  smiled  faintly,  drawing  her  sables  closer 
about  her. 

Benedict  Marston's  studio  was  in  a  street  near  an 
unfashionable  avenue.  The  artist  himself  was  of  suffi- 
cient reputation  to  live  where  he  chose.  He  had  leased 
some  old  stables,  and  had  transformed  them  into  an  ad- 
mirable background  for  his  work.  You  entered  through 
an  Italianized  hall,  a  bare,  fair  place,  set  about  with 
sarcophagi  full  of  growing  plants.  The  studio  proper, 
ugly  as  a  garret,  no  one  but  sitters  ever  entered.  What 
the  public  called  Marston's  studio  was  a  long,  low,  rich 
room,  with  an  open  gallery  looking  down  upon  the  hall, 
carpeted  and  curtained  to  exclude  all  sound,  and  lighted 
from  above.  In  its  shadows  you  caught  gleams  of  gilt, 
in  its  high  lights  of  soft  purple  and  greens.  The  brass 
bowls  were  kept  filled  with  heliotrope,  no  other  flower 
ever  appearing  in  the  room.  Debutantes  said  that  she 
had  died  young ;  young  married  women,  that  she  was  an 
expected  dream.  Marston  was  one  of  those  men  for 
whom  every  one  creates  a  romance. 

When  Paul  Mallory  and  his  mother  entered  the  com- 
fortably filled  rooms — Marston  never  overcrowded,  even 
to  sell  a  picture — the  artist  was  standing  before  one  of 

no 


THE    CITY 

his  portraits  with  Olivia.  Mrs.  Winwood,  with  the  timid 
look  which  in  the  city  replaced  her  confident  Trenthamp- 
ton  expression,  stood  in  the  background,  as  out  of  place 
in  this  singular  room  as  dandelions  in  a  vase  of  Henri 
Deux  ware.  Paul  Mallory  went  to  her  and  shook  her 
hand.  She  addressed  him  plaintively. 

"  Olivia's  going  to  buy  that  picture.  I  don't  know 
whether  it's  proper  of  her,  for  they  tell  me  '  Zita '  is  a 
very  naughty  woman.  She  gets  such  queer  things,  and 
like  as  not  she'll  hang  a  Holy  Family  opposite  to  it,  just 
to  be  contrary.  Do  you  think  she  ought  to  buy  it  ?  "  she 
added  with  an  accent  of  appeal. 

Paul  glanced  at  the  picture.  A  gay  French  face  of 
colossal  impudence  looked  out  and  laughed  at  the  world. 
He  recognized  a  chorus  favorite  of  the  season  before. 

"  Oh,  it  is  only  a  picture,  Mrs.  Winwood,"  he  said 
in  a  soothing  voice,  while  the  matron  turned  to  repeat 
her  plea  to  Mrs.  Mallory. 

Paul  watched  his  mother  anxiously. 

"  I  think  your  feeling  is  right  in  the  matter,"  Mrs. 
Mallory  answered  with  more  kindness  than  usual  in  her 
voice.  "  But  it  is  a  superb  piece  of  work." 

Mrs.  Winwood  relapsed  gratefully  into  her  double 
chin,  and  at  that  moment  Olivia  turned  and  came  forward 
to  greet  them,  holding  out  her  hand  to  Mrs.  Mallory 
with  a  directness  that  took  no  account  of  barriers. 

Mrs.  Mallory 's  curiosity  concerning  her  had  been  in- 
creased a  hundredfold  by  Paul's  revelation.  With  a 
graciousness  which  she  knew  well  how  to  assume  she 
drew  the  girl  down  beside  her  on  a  divan,  saying: 

"  Will  you  tell  me  why  you  like  the  '  Zita ' — apart 
from  its  merit  as  a  picture  ?  " 

A  whimsical  smile  flitted  over  Olivia's  face, 
in 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  I  like  courage,  even  in  the  form  of  bravado.  She 
dares  to  be  gay  and  unconcerned." 

Mrs.  Mallory  regarded  her  curiously. 

"  So  you  think  it  takes  courage  to  be  gay?  " 

"  French  courage." 

The  little  crisp  phrase  might  mean  anything  or  noth- 
ing. Mrs.  Mallory,  who  had  lived  many  years  in  France, 
smiled,  but  remained  silent.  She  was  beginning  to  under- 
stand a  little  of  the  charm  this  woman  had  for  Paul.  She 
herself  could  enjoy  her,  she  thought,  if  she  could  be  per- 
fectly sure  that  Olivia  would  never  be  in  the  family. 

They  talked  for  a  few  moments  on  indifferent  sub- 
jects, Paul  watching  them  from  an  adjacent  shadow ; 
then  Marston  came  up,  and  with  a  little  maneuvering 
formed  a  group,  only  to  disintegrate  it  by  withdrawing 
Olivia  from  it. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  authority. 
"  One  picture  only  you  shall  see." 

"  I  am  honored." 

"  You  are  worshiped,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 

She  laughed. 

"  Please  don't  worship  me.  Such  a  religion  would 
exclude  your  sense  of  humor,  and  I  can  spare  anything 
from  my  friends'  possessions  but  that." 

"  I  have  no  humor ;  I  am  an  artist,"  he  said  with  a 
touch  of  bitterness. 

He  raised  a  curtain,  and  dropped  it  behind  her.  She 
found  herself  in  a  little,  unsuspected  room,  bare  but  for 
one  picture.  She  looked  long  at  it,  then  turned  to  him, 
her  face  irresponsive.  His  own  was  at  once  expectant  and 
strangely  humble. 

"Well?" 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say." 
112 


THE    CITY 

"  Nothing !  "  he  cried  with  a  note  of  protest. 

"  No,  nothing." 

He  turned  at  once  and  raised  the  curtain.  She  stepped 
into  the  main  room,  going  directly  to  her  mother. 

"  You  must  go  to  the  Walkers'  tea  without  me.  I've 
had  enough  of  heavy  scents  and  heavy  talk." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Olivia?"  Mrs.  Win- 
wood  said  helplessly.  "  Those  people  will  snub  me  if 
you're  not  along." 

"  If  they  attempt  to  snub  you,  dear,  ask  Mrs.  Walker 
if  her  son  is  graduating  this  year.  He  was  expelled  from 
Harvard  last  week." 

Mrs.  Winwood  put  out  a  plump  hand  and  caught  a 
fold  of  her  daughter's  gown. 

"  Stay  with  me,  'Livy,  that's  a  good  girl !  Who'll 
tread  on  my  foot  if  I  start  wrong?  " 

Olivia  laughed  out. 

"  If  you  go  to  the  Walkers'  tea  everybody  will  tread 
on  your  feet.  Don't  be  afraid,  mummie.  You  are  a  nice, 
fresh,  wholesome  soul,  worth  a  dozen  Mrs.  Walkers." 
She  turned.  "  Paul,  will  you  see  that  my  mother  is  taken 
care  of  if  she  looks  in  at  the  Walkers'  reception  ?  " 

Paul  had  been  standing  at  a  respectful  distance,  his 
eyes  adoring  Olivia,  who  had  scarcely  bestowed  a  glance 
on  him  since  her  entrance.  He  came  forward  now  with 
a  lover's  eagerness. 

"  I  will  be  delighted  to  do  what  I  can  for  Mrs.  Win- 
wood.  You  are  not " 

"  No,  I'm  not,"  she  said  with  decision.  "  Will  you 
please  ask  Mr.  Marston  to  come  to  me?  " 

Mallory's  face  fell.  He  hesitated,  but  Olivia  took  no 
notice.  When  she  looked  up  again  Marston  was  standing 
by  her. 

"3 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  Will  you  call  a  hansom  for  me  ?  I  am  reluctantly 
leaving." 

She  went  down  into  the  lower  hall.  In  a  moment 
Marston  joined  her.  He  held  in  his  hand  a  little  bunch 
of  heliotrope. 

"  Will  you  take  it?  "  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  in  silence ;  then  she  said : 

"  It  is  not  my  flower." 

His  hand  dropped  to  his  side.  When  her  hansom 
came  he  put  her  into  it  without  a  word. 

"  You  are  not  being  courteous,"  she  said. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  answered,  not  raising  his 
eyes.  "  What  shall  I  tell  your  driver  ?  " 

"  The  Cunningham  Hospital." 


114 


CHAPTER  XV 

"  SHE  has  been  asking  for  you  again.  If  you  would 
like  to  take  the  case,  I'll  arrange  it  with  Rodney.  It's  a 
little  irregular,  but  we're  overworked,  and,  besides,  she 
was  your  out-patient." 

Robert  nodded.  He  was  in  the  dispensary  laboratory 
watching  some  chemicals  boil.  His  long  clinic  was  just 
at  an  end,  leaving  him  as  usual  in  a  state  of  mental  ab- 
sorption. In  memory  he  reviewed  and  studied  the  more 
important  cases,  sometimes  elucidating  by  this  method 
obscure  features. 

"  You'll  look  in  on  her,  then,  before  you  go?  " 

"Ward  No.  4?" 

"  Yes ;  the  poor  thing  seems  to  think  you  can  make 
her  well  by  a  certain  time.  She  has  an  engagement  to 
dance  at  the  Rowley  Theater.  She  calls  herself  the  famous 
'  Firefly,'  and  wonders  why  we  don't  know  all  about  her." 

"  I  prophesied  pneumonia  for  her  if  she  didn't  take 
better  care  of  herself,"  Robert  said,  getting  into  his  white 
coat.  "  Have  you  time  to  watch  this  tube  for  me  while 
I  go  to  the  ward  ?  If  the  fluid  doesn't  clear  in  five  min- 
utes, give  it  up." 

He  found  "  Firefly  "  in  a  bed  a  little  apart  from  the 
other  patients.  Her  long  hair,  of  that  dull,  brittle  gold 
which  seems  burned  out  of  a  certain  kind  of  metropolitan 
furnace,  had  been  braided  and  hung,  Gretchen-like,  over 
her  shoulders,  lending  to  the  pretty  childish  oval  of  her 
face  a  quaint  look  of  innocence.  Fever  had  given  its 

"5 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

strange  touch  to  a  beauty  otherwise  commonplace  enough, 
and  suggestive  of  long  series  of  dancers  who  had  danced 
their  way  to  perdition  or  to  glory,  according  to  their 
capacity.  Beneath  the  sheet  the  girl's  slender  limbs  were 
outlined  gracefully.  On  her  slim  body  there  was  not  an 
ounce  of  superfluous  flesh.  A  certain  coquetry  of  tem- 
perament was  indicated  in  the  glance  of  her  eyes,  which 
were  now  turned  eagerly  to  Robert. 

"  I  knew  you'd  come  if  I  asked  for  you,"  she  said 
huskily.  "  I  told  'em  all  to  fade  away.  I  only  wanted 
you.  You'll  get  me  well.  Shake." 

She  held  out  a  thin  hand,  and  took  Robert's  for  an 
instant  in  a  tight  grasp. 

"  Of  course  I'll  get  you  well.  When  do  you  have  to 
dance  ?  " 

She  smiled. 

"  I  like  the  way  you  get  busy.  I  have  to  dance  ten 
nights  from  now." 

Robert  knit  his  brows. 

"  Up  against  it  ?  "  she  queried. 

He  smiled. 

"  Firefly,  you'll  have  to  help  me." 

"  You  bet  I'll  help  you." 

"  Does — does  Jim  know  ?  Pardon  the  familiarity,  but 
you  never  told  me  his  last  name." 

"  You  mean  me  steady  that  came  with  me  the  first 
time  you  sprayed  me  throat?" 

Robert  nodded. 

"  Yes,  Jim  knows."  She  gave  a  little  impatient  shrug. 
"  I'm  not  botherin'  about  Jim.  I've  got  troubles  of  me 
own." 

"  And  you  will  pardon  me  if  I  ask  you  another  ques- 
tion. Have  you  a  family,  Firefly  ?  " 

116 


THE    CITY 

She  smiled,  showing  her  white,  even  teeth. 

"  I've  got  people  I  send  money  to.  If  that  woman 
over  in  that  bed  doesn't  stop  rubbering,  I'll  ask  you,  sir, 
to  draw  the  screen  'round." 

Robert  adjusted  the  screen ;  then,  after  examining  the 
girl,  he  gave  directions  to  the  attending  nurse. 

"  When  will  you  come  again,  Doctor?  "  Firefly  asked. 
"  And  would  you  mind  telling  me  your  name — all  of  it  ?  " 

"  Robert  Erskine." 

"  Dr.  Robert  Erskine ;  that  sounds  good.  I  guess 
you're  white  as  your  coat.  Down  in  the  dispensary  there 
you  didn't  treat  me  like  I  was  cattle.  That's  why  I 
wanted  you  when  I  knew  I  was  in  for  it.  You  and  me  are 
partners  now  in  a  get-well  enterprise.  Isn't  that  stamped 
on  the  ticket?" 

"  Precisely  that.  Now,  little  girl,  you  must  keep 
quiet  and  obey  orders." 

"  111  obey  'em  if  you  give  'em,"  she  answered. 

Robert  was  turning  away  when  an  orderly  approached 
him. 

"  A  lady  wishes  to  see  you.  She  is  in  the  main 
waiting-room." 

Robert  went  down,  wondering  if  Brooke  had  come  in 
on  a  chance  of  finding  him.  For  an  instant  he  did  not 
recognize  the  tall  figure  that  came  forward  to  meet  him 
across  the  dimly  lighted  room.  It  was  Olivia. 

"You  look  rather  ghost-like;  are  you  tired?"  she 
asked  in  a  slow,  soft  voice. 

"  No,  not  tired.    I  am  most  glad  to  see  you." 

"  And  I  am  most  glad  to  come,"  she  said  frankly. 
"  I  came  away  from  a  studio,  sick  to  death  of  art  jargon 
and  low  lights  and  perfumes.  I  wanted  realities.  I 
wanted  to  see  the  harsh  side." 

117 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  You've  come  to  the  right  place,"  he  said ;  "  I've  been 
dealing  with  realities  all  afternoon." 

"  While  I  was  being  bored,"  she  replied. 

Robert  found  her  altogether  too  charming  in  her  gen- 
tle, half-appealing  mood,  so  unlike  her  usual  confident 
spirit.  She  seemed  as  tired  as  she  said  she  was,  turning 
to  him  a  pale,  shadowed  face. 

"  You  will  think  it  real  to-morrow  again,"  he  said. 

"  I  see  you  understand  moods.  Well,  perhaps  I  will. 
I  can't  answer  for  myself.  Where  were  you  when  I  sent 
for  you  ?  " 

"  At  the  bedside  of  a  little  dancer  who  has  pneumonia, 
and  who  thinks  she  must  dance  in  ten  days,  cured  or  not 
cured.  She  is  a  waif  who  drifted  into  the  dispensary, 
accompanied  by  a  young  man  with  a  very  red  necktie. 
He  scowled  at  me  all  the  time  I  was  treating  her  throat, 
but  he  was  as  humble  as  a  whipped  dog  with  her." 

"  Could  I  see  her  ?    Would  she  like  some  flowers  ?  " 

Robert  looked  his  uncertainty. 

"  I  don't  know ;  they  sometimes  resent  attention." 

"  I  understand.  It's  patronage  they  hate.  Take  me 
to  her.  She  will  not  resent  me,  I  promise  you." 

He  smiled. 

"  How  could  she  ?    Would  you  like  to  see  the  wards  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  I  wanted  the  real  thing." 

He  conducted  her  through  the  hospital,  feeling  less 
at  a  disadvantage  with  her  than  ever  before,  his  pro- 
fession and  all  its  symbols  surrounding  him  like  an  armor. 
She  was  vaguely  jealous  of  the  preoccupation  which  she 
had  only  partly  dissipated,  yet  her  admiration  deepened 
for  Robert  as  she  saw  him  now  for  the  first  time  in  his 
work-day  environment. 

When  they  reached  Firefly's  bed  she  went  softly 
118 


THE    CITY 

forward  and  bent  over  the  girl,  introducing  herself  with 
a  little  apology  and  with  a  manner  almost  timid.  Robert 
could  not  hear  what  she  said,  but  he  watched  Firefly's 
face.  She  looked  up  at  Olivia  wonderingly,  then  her 
eyes  softened,  and,  putting  her  hands  in  the  long,  white 
furs,  she  drew  the  visitor  down.  Olivia  was  talking  to 
her  as  one  girl  talks  to  another. 

When  she  came  away  a  little  enigmatical  smile  lin- 
gered about  her  lips. 

"  She  wants  some  pretty  nightgowns.  She  hates 
the  coarse  cotton  she's  in.  I'll  send  her  some  to- 
morrow." 

"  She  didn't  ask  you — "  Robert  began. 

"  Of  course  not.    I  divined  it.    I  made  her  tell  me." 

"  I  could  see  from  the  way  she  looked  at  you  that 
you  had  won." 

She  sighed. 

"  It  is  so  easy  to  win  them." 

Robert  was  silent. 

"  My  hansom  is  at  the  door.    May  I  give  you  a  lift  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  will  wait  a  moment  while  I  change 
my  coat." 

They  drove  through  brightly  lighted  streets  swarm- 
ing with  people  of  the  tenement  class.  Olivia,  her  furs 
drawn  closely  about  her,  sat  motionless  and  silent.  Rob- 
ert, too  conscious  of  her  near  presence,  was  trying  to  fix 
his  thoughts  on  Brooke,  and  spoke  of  her  at  last,  as  if 
with  the  utterance  of  her  name  he  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross. 

"  Brooke  is  making  a  heroic  effort  to  keep  up  with 
a  modern  newspaper,"  he  said.  "  She  is  wonderfully 
brave  and  splendid — an  inspiration  to  me." 

"  I  am  glad  she  is  coming  to  my  dinner-party,"  Olivia 
119 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

said.  "  I  was  afraid  she  would  disdain  me,  because  as 
a  working-woman  she  has  stepped  so  far  beyond  me." 

Robert  made  no  answer. 

As  they  approached  a  florist's  Olivia  pressed  the 
bulb,  and  the  hansom  drew  up  in  front  of  the  shop. 

"  Will  you  go  in  with  me  a  moment  ?  I  want  to  leave 
an  order." 

He  followed  her  in.  When  she  had  given  her  order 
to  the  obsequious  clerk,  she  drew  a  red  rose  from  a  bowl 
and  pinned  it  in  her  furs.  Then  from  another  vase  she 
took  a  little  spray  of  purple  heliotrope. 

"  Wear  it  for  me,"  she  said,  laughing.  "  It  is  my 
flower." 


120 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BROOKE'S  consent  to  accept  Olivia's  dinner  invitation 
had  cost  her  far  more  self-conquest  than  Robert  realized. 
From  her  earliest  childhood  two  congenital  traits  or 
faculties  had  always  made  self-deception  difficult.  Her 
powers  of  reasoning  were  almost  masculine  in  their  clear- 
ness and  directness,  and  she  possessed  the  gift  of  putting 
herself  in  the  place  of  other  people,  a  corrective  to  im- 
perialism which  can  scarcely  be  overestimated.  During 
the  latter  part  of  the  summer  at  Trenthampton  she  had 
perceived,  with  an  ever-growing  clarity,  the  temptations 
which  the  personality  of  Olivia  offered  to  a  man  of  Rob- 
ert's temperament,  but  not  until  that  autumn  day  at  Dr. 
Gorton's  had  she  allowed  her  vague  ideas  to  take  definite 
shape  in  a  sudden  intolerable  suspicion.  Of  two  classes 
of  women,  the  larger  is  blinded  by  emotion,  and  is  wor- 
shiped for  being  blind.  Brooke  belonged  to  the  minority, 
whose  reward  for  direct  vision  is  the  confidence  and 
good-fellowship,  but  not  the  fidelity,  of  men. 

And  it  was  precisely  fellowship  that  Robert  was 
offering  her  at  this  period,  based  on  a  strong  affection 
that  took  too  much  for  granted,  that  overlooked  all  the 
little  symbols  which  mean  everything  to  the  woman  in 
love.  He  gave  her  his  trust,  his  frankness,  his  comrade- 
heart;  but  the  serviceable  homespun  cloak  bore  no  em- 
broidery. Brooke  sometimes  wondered  whether  she  had 
dreamed  the  incredible  glory  of  those  first  three  or  four 
weeks  after  his  return.  She  asked  herself  whether,  after 
9  121 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

all,  it  had  been  cumulative  splendor,  the  last  and  brightest 
manifestation  of  an  unusual  friendship,  instead  of  the 
dawn  of  love.  Was  she  but  a  stepping-stone  to  the  reality 
of  Olivia? 

Time  would  tell.  She  would  believe  nothing  until 
forced  to  believe.  Her  own  course  stretched  before  her 
in  that  straight  line  whose  inevitableness  of  direction  is 
the  peace  unknown  to  the  storm-tossed  and  the  wavering. 
Her  love,  her  faith,  and  her  silence  had  passed  forever 
into  Robert's  keeping. 

So  she  hid  these  earliest  fears  and  doubts  from  him, 
and  presented  a  happy  face,  though  there  were  days 
when  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  would  not  have  noticed  if 
she  had  wept  in  his  presence.  To  what  his  preoccupa- 
tion was  due  she  did  not  wish  to  decide.  He  was  work- 
ing hard  enough  to  justify  many  omissions. 

Her  own  work  was  beginning  to  demand  a  great  deal 
of  her ;  and  she  threw  herself  into  it  with  an  ardor  that, 
based  as  it  was  on  a  desire  to  forget,  and  not  on  the  de- 
sire to  succeed,  had  the  paradoxical  effect  of  putting 
success  into  her  hands.  The  city  editor,  who  had  mis- 
trusted the  look  of  scholarship  about  her,  was  forced  to 
admit  that  her  mistakes  were  surprisingly  few.  She  did 
exactly  as  she  was  told,  asked  few  questions,  and  made 
no  comments.  Her  one  acquaintance  in  the  office  was 
Hugh  Bradley,  the  homely,  silent  young  man  who  on 
that  difficult  first  day  had  deferentially  offered  her  his 
paste-pot.  They  had  exchanged  a  few  commonplaces 
since  then;  and  sometimes,  in  a  curious  kind  of  mono- 
logue, which  she  was  not  sure  was  intended  for  her  ears, 
he  would  give  forth  maxims  whose  wisdom  was  of  an 
immediate  practical  value  to  her.  Looking  at  the  smoke- 
dimmed  ceiling,  he  would  say  dreamily: 

122 


THE    CITY 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  didn't  forget  to  start  that  story 
with  a  direct  statement  of  what  had  happened  before  I 
went  on  to  expand  my  soul " ;  or  perhaps  he  would 
murmur: 

"  I  wrote  a  head-line  by  accident  this  morning,  and 
they  pay  a  man  five  thousand  dollars  a  year  to  do  noth- 
ing else.  If  the  ax  had  fallen  on  my  presumptuous  head, 
who  would  have  supported  my  aged  aunt  and  my  old, 
blind  grandmother ! " 

Brooke,  looking  at  his  solemn,  inscrutable  face,  always 
pale  beneath  the  freckles,  wondered  if  he  were  in  earnest ; 
but  the  wisdom  of  his  words  she  appropriated  without 
question.  From  time  to  time  she  became  aware  that  cer- 
tain things  were  made  easier  for  her  by  the  intervention 
of  some  friendly  spirit.  Her  place  at  the  long  table  was 
kept  free  from  litter.  Fresh  copy-paper  was  always  there 
ready  for  use,  new  blotters  made  their  appearance  semi- 
weekly,  and  the  man  who  smoked  five-cent  cigars  was 
always  kept  at  a  safe  distance  from  her.  Brooke  was 
grateful,  but  she  made  no  attempt  to  express  her  grati- 
tude to  her  champion.  Once  or  twice  she  discovered  him 
looking  at  her  with  a  shy  yet  penetrating  glance.  He 
seemed  to  her  a  curious  mixture  of  boy  and  aged  stage- 
villain. 

Robert  came  for  her  every  night,  and  together  they 
walked  up-town,  telling  each  other  the  day's  experiences, 
which  in  Robert's  case  were  described  in  general  terms. 
Of  his  cases  he  rarely  spoke  to  Brooke,  lest  by  an  inad- 
vertence he  should  overstep  the  bounds  of  his  professional 
reticence. 

But  of  Firefly  he  did  speak  to  her,  not  wishing  that 
Olivia  should  know  of  some  detail  of  his  work  hidden 
from  Brooke.  He  told  of  Olivia's  visit  to  the  hospital, 

123 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

but  he  did  not  mention  their  little  journey  together 
through  the  city  twilight.  Folded  in  a  bit  of  white  paper 
in  a  pocket  by  itself  was  the  withered  spray  of  heliotrope. 

On  the  night  before  the  dinner  he  and  Brooke  had 
come  into  something  like  their  old  relations  during  a  con- 
fidential chat  in  the  studio.  Angelica  had  gone  with  a 
woman  friend  to  the  theater,  and  they  kept  house  for  her 
in  her  absence,  comparing  for  the  most  part  home-news. 
Robert  was  worried  about  his  father,  who,  his  mother 
wrote  him,  had  been  running  down  in  health  ever  since 
the  sale  of  the  business.  Unless  some  new  form  of 
activity  were  found  for  him  she  was  afraid  that  he  might 
become  a  nervous  invalid. 

"  She  ended  by  saying  that  all  interests  seemed  to 
be  taken  away  from  them,  even  that  of  watching  my 
progress." 

Brooke  looked  troubled,  but  made  no  comment. 

"  She  wants  me  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  some  solid 
business  chance  for  my  father  that  would  require  only  a 
modest  capital,"  he  went  on.  "  Dear,  I  haven't  a  business 
bone  in  my  body.  I  can  understand  speculation.  There's 
something  dramatic,  something  that  appeals  to  the  imag- 
ination in  that,  but  the  necessities  of  business  are  prose 
to  me ;  scarcely  intelligible  prose  at  that." 

Brooke  smiled. 

"Doesn't  everything  turn  out  to  be  prose  at  last?" 

A  weariness  in  her  voice  penetrated  the  armor  of  his 
self-absorption.  He  glanced  toward  her.  Her  face  looked 
strangely  old  and  tired.  Leaning  over,  he  drew  a  cushion 
toward  him. 

"  Come  and  sit  down  beside  me,  dearest.  Do  you  feel 
quite  well  to-night  ?  " 

Without  a  word  she  rose  and  came  over  to  him  and 
124 


THE    CITY 

sat  where  he  told  her  to,  like  a  little  obedient  child.  He 
put  his  hand  on  her  soft  brown  hair. 

"  Brooke,  are  you  quite  happy  in  this  life?" 

"  I  won't  know  yet  for  some  time,"  she  answered  with 
a  smile.  "  Are  you  happy,  Robert?  " 

"  Yesterday  and  to-morrow,  in  Wonderland  style. 
What  are  you  going  to  wear  to  Olivia's  ?  " 

"  If  I  could  describe  it  it  would  be  a  failure.  It  is 
something  quite  miraculous,  even  to  Aunt  Angelica's 
jaded  mind — suitable  for  my  first  and  last  appearance." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  will  accept  no  more  in- 
vitations ? " 

"  Probably  not.  By  the  way,  I've  heard  who  two  of 
the  guests  are  to  be;  tremendously  big  people — Mrs. 
Longstreth  Mallory  and  Paul  Mallory.  Aunt  Angelica 
says  it  is  reported  that  Mr.  Mallory  is  in  love  with 
Olivia." 

An  imperceptible  tremor  went  through  Robert.  When 
he  was  sure  of  his  voice  he  said: 

"  You  mean  of  the  Mallory  family  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Isn't  Olivia  remarkable!  " 

"  She  has  many  advantages  over  mere  birth,"  he  an- 
swered. "  These  people  may  have  all  the  stupidity  of  an 
unassailable  position." 

He  went  away  that  night  disturbed  by  a  jealousy 
which  burned  all  the  more  fiercely  within  him  because 
he  had  no  honorable  right  to  entertain  it.  The  thought 
of  Paul  Mallory's  immense  wealth  was  bitter  to  him. 
After  all,  only  a  man  possessing  such  wealth  was  on  equal 
terms  with  Olivia.  Others  must  ever  be  handicapped  by 
the  frightful  disparity,  must  always  be  open  to  the  im- 
putation of  fortune-seeking.  He  himself  had  been  pro- 
tected in  this  uneven  friendship  by  his  engagement  with 

125 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

Brooke.  But  supposing  that  it  was  removed  ?  He  could 
not  ask  a  woman  to  marry  him  when,  relative  to  her,  he 
was  in  the  position  of  a  pauper. 

At  this  juncture  he  drew  back  from  his  broodings  in 
horror.  How  far  had  this  force  drawn  him  that  he  could 
think  of  possibilities  involving  his  deep  dishonor!  Half 
the  night  he  lay  awake,  trying  to  set  his  house  of  life  in 
order,  and  succeeded  at  last,  only  to  find  the  well-arranged 
rooms  cold  and  lonely.  Well,  at  least  one  bulwark  re- 
mained to  him,  that  of  absence  and  separation.  After  the 
dinner  he  would  see  Olivia  no  more. 

When  he  called  for  Brooke  next  evening  his  mood 
of  revolt  against  an  inexplicable  passion  had  prepared 
him  for  all  the  finer  admirations  which  she  could  awaken 
in  him ;  but  she  was  depending  very  little  this  evening 
on  the  obligations  of  his  engagement  to  her.  She  came 
clown  to  him  radiant,  yet  aloof,  her  lovely  gown  express- 
ing more  worldliness  than  he  had  thought  her  capable 
of.  Her  strong,  almost  boyish  beauty  was  softened  as  if 
he  saw  her  through  a  veil. 

Angelica  gave  her  over  to  him  with  a  gesture  of 
pride. 

"  She  will  do  you  credit,  Sir  Robert,"  she  said  in  her 
curt  manner,  which  left  him  sometimes  doubtful  of  her 
friendliness. 

"  Dear,  you  are  a  vision  of  delight,"  he  said ;  adding, 
as  if  to  himself,  "  I  wish  I  were  worthy  of  you." 

He  put  her  into  a  hansom,  and  they  drove  off  together 
in  unconventional  fashion.  Brooke's  eyes  were  shining 
like  stars.  Wrapped  in  her  white  cloak,  she  had  the  air 
of  a  woman  of  society  who  is  slightly  amused  by  the 
situation. 

"  You  are  happy  to-night,"  he  said. 
126 


THE    CITY 

"  '  I,  who  am  about  to  live,  salute  you,'  "  she  an- 
swered gaily.  "  Robert,  what  if  I  should  stop  taking  you 
with  my  usual  profound  seriousness?  What  if  I  should 
stop  thinking  you  a  hero  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  mischief.  He  did  not  answer 
at  once,  taken  aback  by  a  form  of  speech  so  unusual  to 
her.  He  reviewed  the  past  weeks  in  a  lightning's  instant 
of  thought,  and  was  embarrassed  by  his  failure  to  rescue 
himself  from  those  swamps  of  preoccupation  in  any  guise 
emphatically  heroic.  Had  she  been  measuring  him  while 
he  was  dealing  with  Olivia? 

"  I  should  miss  what  I  never  deserved,"  he  said 
frankly.  "  But  you'd  better  see  me  as  I  am,  dear." 

"  Well,  to-night  I'll  play  you  are  my  hero,"  she  said 
softly,  "  so  act  your  part  well,  Rob  Roy." 

Robert,  opening  his  little  envelope  in  the  dressing- 
room,  found  that  he  was  to  take  Olivia  in.  His  thrill 
of  pleasure  was  marred  by  the  thought  that  she  might  be 
using  him  in  a  game  she  was  playing  with  Paul  Mallory. 
He  went  to  the  drawing-room  in  a  distinctly  cautious 
mood. 

Mrs.  Winwood,  toned  down  by  gray  satin,  despite  the 
bulging  of  her  round,  pink  shoulders,  held  out  to  him  a 
fat,  friendly  hand. 

"  It's  good  to  see  you,  my  dear  boy,"  she  said  in  a 
cordial  voice.  "  Trenthampton  folks  just  warm  my  heart 
in  this  big,  cold  town. — Olivia,  don't  you  think  Dr.  Er- 
skine's  lookin'  rather  run  down  ?  " 

He  raised  his  eyes  then  and  met  her  gaze.  The  con- 
cern in  it  made  the  pulses  of  his  heart  beat  quicker. 

"  Are  you  tired  ?  Are  you  working  too  hard  ?  At 
dinner  you  must  tell  me  all  about  it." 

He  was  at  once  disarmed  of  what  now  seemed  to  him 
127 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

a  foolish  and  unjust  suspicion.  Henry  Win  wood,  a  mar- 
vel of  fair  linen  and  pearl  studs,  greeted  him  cordially, 
and  he  passed  on  to  join  Brooke.  She  was  undimmed  by 
the  splendor  of  the  room. 

The  guests  of  honor  had  not  yet  arrived.  The  others 
had  been  chosen  by  Olivia  with  tact.  They  were  all  peo- 
ple of  some  distinction,  but  they  were  recruited  from  the 
professional  and  artistic  rather  than  the  acknowledged 
social  circles.  Each  was  well  known  enough  to  compel 
the  deference  of  even  a  woman  of  the  highest  fashion. 
The  purely  social  element  was  represented  by  young,  un- 
married people,  who  could  take  no  advantage  of  an 
introduction  to  Mrs.  Mallory. 

She  came  quietly  in  after  a  while,  her  son,  a  monu- 
ment of  faultlessness,  towering  above  her.  Robert,  watch- 
ing him  jealously,  saw  the  color  rise  to  his  face  as 
Olivia  greeted  him. 

Immediately  afterward  Mr.  Winwood  gave  his  arm  to 
Mrs.  Mallory,  and  the  procession  to  the  dining-room  was 
formed.  Paul  Mallory  was  with  Brooke,  his  disappoint- 
ment tempered  by  the  instant  appeal  which  her  appearance 
made  to  him.  Under  his  society  manner  was  a  simplicity 
of  heart  which  found  comfort  in  natural  people. 

Robert,  seated  by  Olivia,  had  the  odd  sensation  of 
being  alone  with  her.  By  a  manner  that  only  he  per- 
ceived she  seemed  to  shut  out  the  other  guests  or  to  put 
them  at  a  distance.  Yet  she  said  very  little  to  him  dur- 
ing the  first  part  of  the  dinner,  directing  her  conversation 
across  the  low  bank  of  orchids  to  the  three  people  who 
sat  opposite — Brooke,  Paul  Mallory,  and  the  artist  Mar- 
ston,  his  dejection  only  half  veiled. 

Mrs.  Mallory,  whose  favorite  violinist  was  at  her 
right,  and  who  found  Henry  Winwood  no  more  intoler- 

128 


THE    CITY 

able  than  his  type  on  the  stage,  was  more  entertained 
than  she  would  have  cared  to  admit.  She  watched  Olivia 
covertly,  still  amazed  over  the  girl's  daring  refusal  of  her 
son.  She  was  forced  to  acknowledge  to  herself  that 
Olivia  had  more  distinction  of  bearing  than  the  majority 
of  young  women  in  the  elect  circle.  The  evident  source 
of  her  power  was  neither  wealth  nor  beauty,  but  per- 
sonality. 

"  She  is  the  kind  of  woman,"  she  thought,  "  who,  if 
she  had  been  bom  a  kitchen-maid  at  Versailles,  would 
have  become  the  mistress  or  the  wife  of  the  king.  But 
I  don't  want  her  for  a  daughter-in-law.  Too  much  per- 
sonality throws  life  out  of  proportion,  and  we  have  always 
been  a  symmetrical  family." 

Aloud  she  said: 

"  Do  you  musicians  find  as  much  joy  in  music  as  you 
are  credited  with  finding?" 

The  violinist  smiled. 

"  We  are  crucified  on  our  imperfections." 

Winwood  nodded. 

"  I  guess  you  mean  the  way  I  feel  when  I  don't  run 
a  deal  through  as  I'd  planned  it." 

Mrs.  Mallory  then  started  a  conversation  of  inquiries. 
Winwood's  elucidations  amused  her. 

Brooke,  meanwhile,  was  listening  to  Paul  Mallory 's 
perfectly  unoriginal  remarks  with  an  ever-growing  sense 
of  the  young  man's  worth.  She  had  never  known  an 
obviously  worthy  person  to  be  witty.  Yet,  in  her  rather 
confused  state  of  mind,  his  platitudes  were  grateful  to 
her,  all  the  more  because  she  felt  behind  them  the  solid 
substance  of  a  character  singularly  honest  and  serious. 
She  was  conscious,  moreover,  of  some  hidden  intensity 
in  his  present  mood,  but  his  breeding  forbade  further 

129 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

revelations.    He  addressed  himself  continually  to  Brooke, 
only  looking  at  Olivia  when  she  spoke  to  him. 

The  two  women  and  the  three  men  had  come  by  slow 
degrees  into  a  community  of  hidden  understanding.  It 
takes  a  lover  to  detect  a  lover;  and  between  Marston, 
Mallory,  and  Erskine  was  the  bond  and  the  antagonism 
of  thieves.  Mutual  suspicion  was  hidden  in  their  cour- 
teous nothings.  Their  glances  betrayed  war.  Brooke, 
with  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  had  perceived  Robert's  absorp- 
tion. By  a  defect  which  placed  him  just  below  Mallory 
in  the  scale  of  gentlehood  he  had  not  been  able  to  play 
his  part.  He  saw  no  one  but  Olivia. 

Olivia  directed  several  remarks  to  Brooke.  These 
were  answered  gaily  and  with  a  histrionic  power  that 
would  have  surprised  Robert  had  he  paid  attention,  but 
he  was  making  the  mistake  of  settling  a  moral  problem 
during  the  course  of  a  dinner.  Olivia,  flattered  by  his 
abstraction  as  no  spoken  word  had  ever  flattered  her, 
rallied  him  on  his  silence. 

"  Is  it  the  crisis  to-night  for  one  of  your  patients  that 
you  thus  ungallantly  remain  at  the  hospital?" 

"  If  it  had  been  I  wouldn't  be  here,"  he  answered. 

"  Little,  harsh,  one-syllable  words  are  not  for  a  din- 
ner, are  they?  Please  put  more  Latin  in." 

He  laughed. 

"  I  fear  I'm  in  an  Anglo-Saxon  mood." 

"  You  shouldn't  be  in  a  mood  at  a  dinner.  Moods 
are  only  for  studio-teas,  entr'acts,  and  good-night  dis- 
gusts of  the  day,  aren't  they  ?  " 

"  Please  don't  talk  like  a  studio-tea  girl,"  he  said. 
"  You'll  be  asking  me  next  if  I'll  have  rum  in  my  tea, 
and  if  I've  read  '  Joyzelle.'  " 

"  But  what  do  you  wish  me  to  talk  to  you  about  ?  " 
130 


THE    CITY 

"  Yourself." 

"  A  little  contents  you." 

"  I  shall  always  have  to  be  content  with  a  little." 

She  glanced  toward  Brooke. 

"  When  you  possess  a  kingdom  ?  " 

"  Say,  rather,  an  empire,"  he  answered.  "  Let  us  not 
introduce  a  third  person." 

"  I  am  fond  of  the  number  three.  It  represents  all 
the  social  graces  of  existence." 

"  And  what  do  two  represent  ?  " 

"  A  chance  to  be  bored — eventually." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  Please  don't  be  personal.  You  have  been  so  splen- 
didly free  from  that.  When  people  are  personal  I  never 
know  what  to  do  with  them,  because,  you  see,  they  are 
only  personal  when  they  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
themselves." 

Robert  smiled. 

"  I  will  try  not  to  be  a  burden  to  you." 

She  grew  suddenly  serious. 

"  As  if  you  ever  could  be !  Your  friendship  is  one  of 
my  few  real  joys." 

Her  manner  was  sincere.  Robert  wished  that  she  had 
continued  to  jest. 

He  was  glad  when  the  women  left  the  table.  A  cigar 
excused  silence.  He  was  wondering  in  what  terms  he 
could  tell  Olivia  of  a  possible  approaching  discourtesy 
on  his  part.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  come  again  to 
this  house. 

When  he  said  good  night  to  her  the  little  speech  that 
he  had  framed  about  the  pressure  of  his  work  in  the 
future  died  on  his  lips.  Not  to  see  her  again  would  be 
to  go  into  tragic  monotony. 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  You  will  come  soon,"  she  said  softly.  "  I  have  some 
things  to  tell  you." 

"  I  would  like  to  come  soon,"  he  answered. 

When  he  and  Brooke  were  alone  he  expected  to  find 
her  either  cold  to  him  or  dejected,  but  she  seemed  in  a 
sparkle  of  spirits. 

"Well,  what  did  you  make  of  the  evening?"  he 
asked,  drawing  her  cloak  closer  about  her. 

She  smiled. 

"  Precisely  what  I  did  make  out  was  that  more  than 
one  man  at  that  table  was  in  love  with  Olivia." 

Robert  held  his  breath  and  waited,  but  she  said  noth- 
ing more  on  the  subject,  turning  with  a  quick,  gay  transi- 
tion to  the  guests,  on  whom  she  pinned  what  she  called 
"  guess-labels."  One  was  witty,  another  ambitious,  an- 
other frivolous.  Her  flow  of  talk  aroused  Robert's  curi- 
osity. Was  Brooke,  after  all,  more  complex  than  she 
appeared  ? 

When  they  reached  her  home  he  bent  to  kiss  her 
good  night,  but  she  turned  away  her  head. 

"  I  don't  feel  romantic.  You  should  know  when  to 
kiss  me,  Robert." 

For  a  moment  he  was  annoyed,  then  he  laughed,  since 
the  Olympians  were  laughing. 


132 


CHAPTER   XVII 

ON  the  morning  after  the  dinner  Paul  Mallory,  as 
his  custom  was,  went  to  say  his  prayers  in  a  neighbor- 
ing church  whose  hospitality  had  drawn  toward  it  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men.  He  passed  through  the 
lich-gate  with  a  heavy  step,  not  lightened  when  he 
emerged  again  from  the  low  Gothic  doorway.  He  had 
tossed  all  night  in  unrest  and  doubt,  and  the  peace  of  the 
place  seemed  a  remote  and  ineffectual  consolation. 
Olivia's  manner  toward  Dr.  Erskine,  this  haughty,  good- 
looking  stranger  from  the  provinces,  had  aroused  in  Paul 
a  jealousy  not  appeased  by  the  knowledge  that  the  inter- 
esting girl  whom  he  had  taken  in  to  dinner  was  engaged 
to  the  young  physician. 

Mrs.  Mallory  had  refused  to  give  an  opinion  of  Olivia 
after  the  dinner  on  the  ground  that  midnight  judgments 
are  rarely  unbiased.  Paul,  driven  from  his  office  by  his 
restlessness,  came  up-town  early,  hoping  to  find  his 
mother.  Her  carriage  was  waiting,  and  as  he  ascended 
the  door-steps  he  met  her. 

"  Are  you  going  far  enough  for  me  to  have  a  bit  of  a 
chat  with  you?  You  promised  last  night,  you  know,  to 
tell  me  certain  things." 

She  smiled. 

"  I  believe  I  did.  You  are  as  impatient  as  a  school- 
boy, Paul.  After  all,  it  can  make  very  little  difference." 

"What  can  make  little  difference?" 

"  My  opinion." 

"  Ah,  but  it  is  a  relief  to  talk  it  over  with  you,"  he 
133 


THE     PORT    OF    STORMS 

said  as  he  put  her  into  the  carriage.  "  Where  are  you 
going?" 

"  To  the  Cunningham  Hospital.  I  am  on  the  visit- 
ing committee  this  season." 

For  some  time  they  sat  in  silence,  watching  the  end- 
less procession  of  the  avenue.  At  last  Paul  spoke. 

"Wasn't  it  all  perfectly  done?  Nothing  could  jar 
on  your  taste  except  perhaps — the  parents." 

She  laughed. 

"  It  was  done  too  well.  I  think  I  found  the  parents 
less  objectionable  than  the  environment.  They,  at  least, 
were  honest." 

"  Ah,  but  the  environment  was  the  expression  of  her 
— of  her  soul." 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  don't  think  she  has  a  soul." 

Paul  looked  troubled. 

"  You  think  her  a  Lamia  ?  " 

"  I  think  her  a  wonderfully  clever  woman,  who  is  de- 
pendent on  sensation  for  her  amusement.  You  might 
make  her  love  by  laying  on  the  whip — but  you're  not  the 
kind  of  a  man  who  has  the  whip-hand.  You  must  be  a 
bit  of  a  brute  for  that." 

"  I  think  you  misread  her  character.  I  think  her 
soul  is  there,  only  night-hidden." 

The  poetical  expression  sounded  odd  from  his  lips. 
She  laid  a  motherly  hand  on  his. 

"  Don't  go  into  the  night.     You  can't  see  your  way." 

"  I  can  see  her,"  he  answered  simply.  "  Did  you 
meet  Dr.  Erskine  last  evening?  " 

"  I  talked  with  him  a  few  moments.  He  seemed  to 
me  just  a  little  difficult." 

"  He  is  from  Trenthampton ;  he  and  his  fiancee,  Miss 
Peyton,  are  great  friends  of  Miss  Winwood.  I  like  that 

134 


THE     CITY 

in  her/'  he  added ;  "  she  does  not  exclude  them  from  her 
city  circle." 

"  I  admit  that  she  shows  few  of  the  usual  marks  of 
the  climber,"  his  mother  answered  dryly. 

"  Could  I  care  for  her  if  she  were  that !  "  he  ex- 
claimed. "  Wasn't  her  refusal  of  me  the  last  proof  that 
she  doesn't  calculate?" 

"  Perhaps." 

The  little  word  stung  him. 

"  I  see  you  do  not  believe  in  her." 

"  I  am  not  in  love  with  her." 

"  Leave  out  your  first  preposition.  This  is  no  pass- 
ing fancy." 

"  I  fear  not,"  Mrs.  Mallory  answered  with  a  little  sigh. 

They  did  not  speak  again  until  the  carriage  rolled 
under  the  arched  entrance  to  the  hospital  yard. 

"  I  will  remain  in  the  waiting-room,"  Paul  said,  "  if 
you  are  not  stopping  a  great  while." 

Mrs.  Mallory  began  her  rounds  with  the  conscientious 
attention  of  the  fashionable  woman  to  whom  hospital  vis- 
iting is  as  much  a  part  of  her  winter  as  attendance  at 
grand  opera.  To  do  her  justice,  she  had  little  of  the  exas- 
perating curiosity  of  the  average  philanthropist.  She  dis- 
tributed her  flowers  and  magazines  without  inquiring  into 
the  moral  worth  of  those  she  benefited.  Mothers — if 
they  wore  the  wedding-ring — called  forth  her  particular 
solicitude,  but  she  judged  no  one.  Her  religious  propa- 
ganda never  went  farther  than  the  presentation  of  a 
prayer-book. 

As  she  passed  from  bed  to  bed,  a  trail  of  American 
Beauty  roses  marking  her  progress,  she  asked  questions 
of  the  nurse  accompanying  her,  which  for  the  most  part 
put  no  strain  on  the  professional  woman's  sense  of  humor. 

135 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

Mrs.  Mallory  was  not  without  powers  of  observation, 
though  her  judgment  of  what  she  observed  was  not 
always  perfect. 

Suddenly  she  paused  with  a  little  air  of  doubt  or 
hesitation. 

"  Who  is  the  pretty  girl  in  a  night-gown  fit  for  a 
duchess?  " 

The  nurse  smiled. 

"  Her  name  is  Aurelia  Shanley,  but  they  call  her 
Firefly.  She  dances  in  vaudeville." 

"  The  night-dress  tells  a  story." 

"  An  innocent  story  this  time.  It  was  sent  her  by  a 
wealthy  young  woman  who  takes  an  interest  in  her. 
Aurelia  likes  pretty  things." 

"  Pretty  things,  yes.  But  why  should  this  benefactor 
robe  her  in  embroidered  cambric  and  fine  lace  ?  " 

"  Just  to  please  her,  I  suppose." 

"  I  could  conceive  of  its  leading  the  child  downward, 
if  she  is  not  already  started  on  that  road." 

"  I  can't  say  whether  Aurelia's  good  or  bad,"  the 
nurse  answered,  "  but  she  has  a  big  heart  Here  comes 
Miss  Winwood  now,"  she  added,  her  face  lighting  up. 

"Ah!  It  is  Miss  Winwood  who  does  this!"  Mrs. 
Mallory  said,  adding  to  herself,  "  Paul's  divinity  is  not 
lacking  in  the  melodramatic  instinct." 

The  two  women  met  at  the  foot  of  Firefly's  bed. 
Olivia,  encumbered  with  big  bunches  of  violets,  held  out 
an  audacious  left  hand. 

"  You  have  the  right  to  be  here,"  she  said.  "  I  can 
only  come  as  this  little  girl's  friend,"  nodding  toward 
Aurelia.  "  And  I  suppose  I  blunder  every  time.  I  have 
had  no  training  in  official  charity." 

Mrs.  Mallory  felt  the  veiled  antagonism  of  the  words, 
136 


THE    CITY 

and  a  smile  flitted  across  her  face.  She  made  up  her 
mind  that  Olivia  should  not  know  that  Paul  was  in  the 
building. 

"  You  at  least  have  the  sense  of  poetic  justice,"  she 
answered  sweetly.  "  Few  of  us  are  dramatic  enough  to 
clothe  the  poor  in  purple  and  fine  linen." 

"  I  like  to  give  them  what  they  want,"  Olivia  an- 
swered, "  but  I  suppose  that  is  unscientific." 

"  Not  if  you — or  they — can  keep  it  up." 

"Won't  you  speak  to  her,  to  Firefly?  I  think  she'd 
appreciate  it." 

Mrs.  Mallory  went  forward,  and  bent  over  the  girl, 
who  was  as  white  as  the  lace  about  her  throat.  Her  fight 
for  life,  now  won,  had  left  her  with  something  of  the 
ethereal  and  remote  look  of  the  dead. 

She  listened  passively  to  Mrs.  Mallory's  formal  con- 
solations, but  her  eyes  sought  Olivia,  and  her  thin  hands 
reached  out  greedily  for  her  as  she  approached. 

"  I  knew  you'd  come.  You're  a  lady  of  your  word, 
you  are." 

Mrs.  Mallory  slipped  away,  wondering  at  the  look  in 
Olivia's  face  as  she  bent  over  Firefly.  It  held  a  deep 
tenderness. 

"  Getting  well,  Firefly?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  just  grand  these  days !  Me  doctor  and  me 
are  a  team.  Jim's  that  jealous — !  "  She  laughed  feebly. 
"  I  told  him  this  morning  that  o'  course  I  liked  Dr.  Ers- 
kine  better  than  him.  If  the  Doctor'd  raise  his  little 
finger,  Jim  couldn't  see  me  for  the  dust;  but  I  ain't  any- 
thing to  him  but  a  case." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Olivia  put  the  violets  up 
against  the  thin  white  cheek. 

"  Is  he  good  to  you  ? "  she  said  softly. 
10  137 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  I  suppose  he  is.  I  never  thought  of  it.  You  don't 
care  for  people  because  they're  good  to  you.  There's 
some  that  could  kick  you  down-stairs  and  yet  take  the 
heart  right  out  of  your  body." 

Olivia  smiled. 

"  Where  did  you  learn  it  all,  Firefly?  " 

She  tapped  her  thin  chest. 

"  I've  been  kicked  down-stairs,"  she  answered. 

"  There  is  your  Doctor  corning  now,"  Olivia  said, 
rising,  and  holding  out  her  hand  to  Robert. 

For  an  instant  his  eyes  expressed  all  his  trouble,  then 
with  the  barrier  of  a  cold  and  courteous  manner  he  shut 
her  out,  as  he  meant  to  shut  her  out  for  all  time.  With 
a  whispered  word  of  farewell  to  Firefly,  and  a  grave 
good-by  to  him,  Olivia  went  away. 

Robert,  crushing  down  his  mingled  revolt  and  long- 
ing, bent  over  Firefly,  going  through  his  examination 
in  a  perfunctory  manner.  He  would  sometimes  jest  with 
the  girl,  but  to-day  he  had  no  heart  even  for  trivialities. 

As  he  was  leaving  she  put  out  a  detaining  hand. 

"  Have  you  had  a  scrap  ?  "  she  said  confidentially. 

Robert  looked  puzzled. 

"  A  scrap  ?    With  whom  do  you  mean,  Firefly  ?  " 

"  With  her,  with  Miss  Winwood.  Ain't  she  your 
girl?" 

The  quick  color  rose  to  Robert's  face. 

"  We  are  only  friends,"  he  answered. 

"  You  don't  look  at  her  like  you  was  her  friend,"  she 
said.  "  You  look  at  her  same  as  Jim  looks  at  me." 

Robert  was  silent. 

"  You  ain't  mad !  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

The  tears  again  came  to  her  eyes. 
138 


THE    CITY 

"  If  you  stayed  mad,  I'd  not  get  well." 

"  Don't  bother,  little  girl,"  he  said  gently;  "  I  couldn't 

be  angry  with  you  if  I  tried." 
"  What's  the  matter,  then  ?  " 
"  Oh,  just  life,  just  living,"  he  answered. 
She  smiled  with  appreciation. 
"  I  ain't  stuck  on  it — are  you?    Wonder  why  we  all 

act  like  it  was  lovely." 

Olivia,  at  the  turning  of  a  passage,  again  met  Mrs. 
Mallory,  who  had  been  detained  in  a  lower  ward,  and 
who  now  summoned  all  her  courtesy  to  keep  from  her 
face  her  annoyance  over  this  second  encounter.  The 
girl  quietly  joined  the  matron,  and  they  rustled  on 
together,  Olivia  stringing  together  little  nothings  of  a 
glittering,  bead-like  quality;  black  beads,  Mrs.  Mallory 
would  have  said,  sensitive  to  she  knew  not  what  noc- 
turnal element  in  the  personality  of  this  young  woman. 

Paul  was  fated  to  see  her,  after  all,  she  thought,  won- 
dering what  imp  of  the  perverse  favors  a  lover.  She 
hated  Olivia  for  refusing  her  son,  and  she  blessed  her 
for  refusing  him.  The  two  conflicting  emotions  gave  her 
little  rest  in  the  girl's  presence. 

As  they  entered  the  waiting-room  Paul's  face  lit  up 
with  the  radiance  of  an  unexpected  joy.  Mrs.  Mallory 
said  her  unheeded  word  of  explanation  while  her  son, 
figuratively  speaking,  was  getting  down  on  his  knees. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  for  a  walk  ?  "  he  timidly  asked 
Olivia. 

"In  this  neighborhood?"  Mrs.  Mallory  objected. 

"  I'd  enjoy  a  walk  through  this  quarter  of  the  town 
at  this  hour,"  Olivia  answered,  a  touch  of  perverseness 
in  her  manner. 

139 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

She  kept  them  waiting  on  one  pretense  of  conversa- 
tion and  another  until  she  was  sure  that  a  certain  thing 
would  happen.  Then  they  went  down  the  high  stone 
steps  together,  and  Paul  put  his  mother  into  her  carriage. 
As  he  rejoined  Olivia,  Robert  came  out  of  the  dispensary. 
He  bowed  stiffly,  his  surprise  visible  in  his  face.  She 
smiled  to  herself,  thinking  how  well  she  had  timed  this 
meeting,  a  punishment  for  Robert's  coldness  to  her. 

His  sudden  appearance  quickened  into  fresh  life  the 
suspicion  which  had  crossed  Paul's  mind  on  first  seeing 
Olivia.  She  had  come  to  the  hospital  because  Robert 
was  there.  Was  her  interest  in  him  deeper  than  that  of 
friendship?  or  was  it  merely  that  she  depended  on  his 
professional  knowledge  in  directing  her  charities? 

Jealousy,  the  first  infirmity  of  love,  has  as  many 
varieties  of  torment  as  there  are  temperaments.  The 
quick  flash,  deadly  but  soon  over,  belongs  to  impulsive 
natures.  The  jealousy  of  serious-minded,  slow-moving 
people  is  a  long-drawn-out  passion.  If  they  possess  high 
ideals  they  suffer  also  on  the  rack  of  self-contempt. 

The  pain  that  gripped  Paul  now  was  of  this  double 
order. 

Olivia,  perfectly  conscious  of  his  state  of  mind,  and 
perfectly  indifferent  to  it,  was  enjoying  with  the  epicure- 
anism of  a  Turner  the  rich  colors  of  the  disordered  scene 
before  her:  the  blues  and  browns  of  the  clothes  of  labor- 
ers returning  from  their  work;  the  splotches  of  ruddy 
orange  made  against  the  twilight  by  the  oil-lamps  on  the 
push-carts ;  the  golden  and  crimson  contents  of  the  carts 
themselves ;  or  the  varied  dimmer  colors  of  the  vegetables 
heaped  before  some  shop.  A  stand  of  Russian  brass 
caught  the  flickering  glow  of  a  near-by  gas-jet,  while  over 
all  hung  the  cold,  blue  star  of  an  arc-light.  Children 

140 


THE    CITY 

swarming  over  the  pavement  added  the  raw,  bright  colors 
of  their  frocks  to  the  variety  of  hues. 

Paul  broke  the  silence. 

"  Dr.  Erskine  is  an  old  friend  of  yours,  is  he  not  ?  " 

"  Measured  by  time  he  is  a  very  recent  friend,"  she 
answered. 

" '  Measured  by  time/  "  Paul  repeated  in  the  hungry 
voice  of  the  denied  lover.  "  Do  you  know,  Olivia,  I  am 
jealous  of  him,  even  though  you  tell  me  he  is  engaged." 

"  You  may  well  be,"  she  said  lightly.  "  I  have  a 
great  admiration  for  him." 

Her  perfect  concurrence  left  him  sore  and  silent. 
Was  his  mother  right  ? 

The  doubt,  as  usual,  added  to  the  charm  of  the  person 
against  whom  it  was  directed.  Love  thrives  on  unbelief 
so  long  as  the  charge  is  not  definitely  proved — sometimes 
even  then. 

"  Tell  me  something  of  Dr.  Erskine.  He  seems  an 
inscrutable  person." 

"  Truth  was  not  in  the  wine,  then,  last  evening." 

"  He  took  no  part  in  the  conversation.  His  absorp- 
tion was  so  deep  that  I  judged  he  was  thinking  of  you." 

"  You  see  your  own  state  of  mind  in  every  one  else. 
Dr.  Erskine  was  probably  performing  an  operation  or 
making  a  diagnosis." 

Paul  laughed  grimly. 

"  Where  are  you  taking  me  ?  "  she  said,  as  they  came 
to  a  turning.  "  Let  us  go  this  way.  I  love  the  docks  at 
this  hour.  How  black  the  masts  are  against  the  last  gold 
of  the  west !  " 

"  I  wish  you  and  I  were  on  that  ship,"  he  said  wist- 
fully. "  We  would  sail  to  the  Blessed  Islands.  Olivia, 
is  it  nothing  to  you  that  I  love  you  ?  " 

141 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  It  is  more  to  me  that  you  are  my  friend.  Let  us 
walk  to  the  end  of  the  dock,  and  see  the  city  pass  into 
night." 

They  bent  their  heads  against  the  cold  west  wind 
romping  over  the  water,  which  was  now  black  beneath 
the  sky  and  stained  red  here  and  there  by  the  lights  of 
a  tug  or  ferry-boat.  Behind  them  the  majestic  city  rose 
preparing  itself  for  its  supplementary  day.  Far  to  the 
north  a  graceful  tower  was  outlined  with  many  colored 
lights. 

"  You  do  care  for  my  friendship,  then?" 

"  Please  don't  be  personal.  Look  at  the  city  and  for- 
get me." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  humbly. 

She  gave  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"  Never  beg  my  pardon.  I  threw  a  friend  over  once 
for  apologizing  to  me." 

"What  may  I  do?" 

She  smiled. 

"  Adore  me,  if  you  wish,  but  be  silent  just  now!  " 


142 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

OLIVIA  for  once  had  erred  in  a  calculation  of  psychol- 
ogy. Her  power  was  less  magnetic  over  Robert  than 
she  thought,  and  more  closely  allied  to  the  natural  prin- 
ciples of  his  character.  Not  her  fascination,  but  his  own 
deep  love  of  her,  was  beginning  to  dominate  him.  The 
sight  of  her  as  he  left  the  dispensary  aroused  in  him  a 
kind  of  jealousy  which  resulted  in  clear  vision.  He 
might  have  dallied  with  a  fancy.  From  a  fact  he  must 
flee. 

By  a  paradox  which  told  him  how  little  of  the  lover 
he  had  been  to  Brooke,  and  how  much  of  a  friend,  he 
sought  her  for  a  certain  kind  of  consolation,  and  found 
it.  She  seemed  to  him  more  companionable  than  ever: 
her  strength  and  sweetness  more  invasive  of  the  whole 
structure  of  his  life.  He  did  not  realize  that  since  the 
dinner  she  had  been  putting  forth  every  effort  to  charm 
and  hold  him,  fighting  her  doubts  in  a  lovely  armor  of 
graciousness.  She  talked  to  him  gaily  of  her  experiences. 
She  put  on  her  prettiest  dresses  to  receive  him,  and  did 
her  hair  in  new  ways,  knowing  full  well  the  value  of 
little  impressions.  She  made  him  tempting  suppers  in 
Angelica's  chafing-dish.  Her  aunt,  divining  some  hid- 
den trouble  between  the  lovers,  and  feeling  for  her  niece 
a  wistful  sympathy,  spent  her  evenings  at  the  libraries, 
that  Brooke  and  Robert  might  have  the  studio  to  them- 
selves. 

One  evening,  not  long  before  Christmas,  they  were 
seated  by  the  open  fire,  Brooke  roasting  apples  and  re- 

143 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

lating  with  touches  of  satire  her  attendance,  in  the  char- 
acter of  a  reporter,  at  a  fashionable  women's  club. 

"  She  read  a  ten-minute  paper  on  the  Influence  of  the 
Platonic  Philosophy  on  the  Christian  Dogma  of  the  Sec- 
ond Century,  together  with  a  Brief  Sketch  of  the  Most 
Distinguished  Neo-Platonists — honestly,  dear,  that  was 
the  full  title.  I  came  away  sorrowful  from  the  hostelry, 
for  I  felt  that  they  were  very  poor.  But  the  lunch  was 
delicious." 

"  And  where  did  you  go  next,  brave  lady  ?  "  Robert 
said,  looking  at  her  with  admiration  that  deepened  the 
reproach  in  his  heart. 

"  To  a  studio :  an  unofficial  attendance.  I  went  to 
please  Aunt  Angelica." 

"  Were  you  rewarded  ?  " 

"  After  a  fashion.  It  was  the  kind  of  a  place  where 
people  read  their  sonnets  to  each  other;  then  somebody 
plays  Grieg  just  well  enough  to  exasperate  you;  then 
somebody  else  gets  up  and  recites  his  latest  poem;  and 
there  are  Moorish  corners  with  those  hideous  painted 
Turks'  heads  and  sham  armor,  and  girls  with  picture-hats 
who  always  take  cocktails." 

Robert  laughed. 

"  It  sounds  like  the  American-Latin  quarter  in  Paris. 
I  know  the  types." 

Brooke  hesitated. 

"  Olivia  was  there." 

"Did — did  you  speak  with  her?" 

Brooke  looked  into  the  fire. 

"  For  a  few  moments.  She  possessed  all  the  dis- 
tinction that  there  was  in  the  studio,  though  she  said  and 
did  nothing.  An  artist  was  with  her.  I  think  it  was 
the  great  Marston." 

144 


THE    CITY 

"Did  she— seem  well?" 

Brooke's  little  smile,  as  she  bent  forward  to  turn  the 
apples,  was  hidden  from  Robert. 

"  I  thought  she  looked  tired,  certainly  bored.  She 
asked  me  why  we  had  not  been  to  see  her." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"  I  did  not  remind  her  that  I  had  made  my  dinner- 
call.  If  you  haven't  made  yours,  Robert,  you  ought  to 
go  at  once.  It's  not  courteous." 

She  spoke  with  an  effort,  keeping  her  face  turned 
away. 

"  I've  been  too  busy.  I'm  not  a  society  man,  and  she 
knows  it." 

"  There  is  not  much  Olivia  doesn't  know,"  Brooke 
said  in  a  musing  tone.  "  She  sets  a  wonderful  pace  for 
divination."  She  paused,  then  added,  "  Do  you  think  she 
is  the  kind  of  woman,  Robert,  that  a  man  would  always 
love?  I  sometimes  wonder  if  they  keep  on  loving  her — 
all  these  distracted  people !  " 

She  spoke  quietly,  a  shadow  of  contempt  in  her  voice. 

"  If  he  really  loved  her — yes." 

Brooke  closed  her  eyes  a  moment.  From  the 
shadowy  corners  of  the  room  threatening  shapes  seemed 
to  creep.  She  wished  that  she  could  despise  Olivia,  but 
her  strange  and  strong  personality  held  even  her  reason- 
able accusations  in  check.  This  rival  was  too  extraor- 
dinary for  ordinary  jealousies. 

Robert,  seeing  nothing  but  the  leap  and  play  of  the 
flames  like  a  symbol  of  inner  devastation,  put  a  hand 
gently  on  Brooke's  shoulder  and  drew  her  toward  him. 

"  Come  closer  to  me.     You  are  too  near  the  fire." 

He  put  a  protecting  arm  about  her,  and  put  his  cheek 
down  to  hers.  Suddenly  he  felt  her  tears. 

US 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"Why,  girlie!  why,  Brooke!  Oh,  my  dear,  why  are 
you  crying?  " 

The  distress  in  his  voice  called  to  her  self-control. 
She  spoke  piteously. 

"  I'm  tired,  Bobbie,  just  tired.  Oh,  Bobbie,  let's  go 
home." 

He  kissed  her  forehead. 

"  Dear,  we're  going  home  for  our  white  day,  for 
Christmas.  We'll  play  then.  We'll  do  all  the  old 
things:  we'll  go  up  the  mountain  and  cut  a  tree  for  the 
kids  and  trim  it  together." 

Remorse  gave  intensity  to  his  words.  She  tried  to 
smile. 

"  It  will  be  good  to  play  with  the  children,  and  forget 
that  we  are  metropolitans." 

"  And  you  go  back  successful." 

A  shiver  went  through  her. 

"  No,  I  have  failed,"  she  said. 

This  little  scene  with  her  became  sacramental  to  him. 
He  entered  upon  a  period  of  comparative  calm,  one 
which  for  her  also  held  its  halcyon  blessings.  Two  days 
before  Christmas  they  went  down  to  Trenthampton, 
Brooke  being  able  to  get  away  because  she  was  still  re- 
porting "  on  space,"  and  Robert  deliberately  taking  the 
brief  vacation.  Firefly  had  left  the  hospital,  telling 
him  with  tears  at  parting  that  he  "  could  have  her  and 
Jim."  Even  Jim  himself  had  shaken  hands  with  him 
cordially,  convinced  at  last,  perhaps,  that  Robert  was 
heart-whole  toward  the  little  dancer. 

He  looked  forward  to  meeting  his  parents  with  re- 
luctance. Though  his  mother  never  mentioned  the 
change  which  the  sale  of  the  business  and  the  setting- 
up  of  his  town  office  had  made  in  the  household,  her 

146 


THE    CITY 

letters  were  reserved  beneath  their  solicitude.  She  was 
evidently  worried  over  his  father's  health,  over  many 
things  of  which  she  never  spoke  outright. 

But  the  first  hours  at  home  were  all  pleasure,  despite 
the  story  told  to  Robert  by  his  father's  nervous,  half-fret- 
ful manner  and  run-down  condition,  like  that  of  an 
animal  that  grows  thin  pacing  its  cage.  His  mother's 
face  was  patient,  but  not  happy.  Robert  saw  with  a 
pang  how  shrunken  the  establishment  was  over  which 
she  presided  with  her  old  grace  and  dignity.  No  wine 
was  offered  at  dinner.  The  coachman  and  the  gardener 
had  been  dismissed  at  the  closing  of  the  stables.  Only 
the  cook  and  one  other  servant  were  retained  indoors. 

After  dinner  the  three  went  into  the  library.  Mrs. 
Erskine  made  the  black  Turkish  coffee  that  Robert 
liked,  and  he  and  his  father  smoked,  the  elder  Erskine's 
unfailing  method  of  drifting  from  reality  to  dreams. 

"  Tell  us  all  about  it,  Robert,"  he  said.  "  Don't  leave 
anything  out.  My  mole-hills  are  Alps,  you  must  re-- 
member." 

So  Robert  began  his  story,  making  it  as  dramatic  and 
as  full  of  color  as  possible,  emphasizing  his  hopes  and 
passing  over  his  discouragements,  because  he  saw  that 
his  father  desired  only  a  bright  perspective. 

"And  the  Winwoods,  what  of  them?" 

Robert  related  what  he  could  relate. 

"  You  evidently  don't  see  as  much  of  Olivia  as  you 
did,"  Erskine  said.  "  Is  Brooke  jealous  ?  " 

The  ungenerous  speech  told  of  a  condition  far  from 
normal.  Mrs.  Erskine  hastened  to  say  : 

"  That's  not  Brooke's  nature.  Why  are  you  so  sus- 
picious of  people  these  days,  James?" 

"  Because  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  brood.  I'm 
,147. 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

nothing  but  a  chained  bear,  Robert,"  he  added  with  a 
little  deprecating  smile.  "  I'll  open  a  store  in  the  village 
soon,  if  I  can't  do  something  to  work  off  my  energy.  If 
there's  any  little  hell  on  earth,  it's  sitting  down  and 
economizing  when  you  want  to  be  out  in  the  world 
making  money." 

The  words  seemed  to  give  him  relief.  He  put  out  a 
thin  hand  and  patted  his  wife's  shoulder. 

"  Your  mother  has  been  a  brick — putting  up  with  all 
my  humors.  I've  not  been  easy  to  live  with  this  fall, 
Robert.  I  guess  I  wanted  to  go  to  the  city,  too." 

"  Your  father  has  corresponded  with  several  people 
who  want  capital  put  into  their  concerns,  but  their  plans 
never  seemed  solid  enough  for  our  sober  judgment." 

Robert  listened  with  some  surprise.  Evidently  his 
father  and  mother  talked  to  each  other  more  freely  than 
of  old.  His  own  mood  fell  all  too  readily  in  with  his 
father's.  Though  he  did  not  realize  it,  his  subconscious 
self  was  always  planning  ventures  by  which,  through 
some  miracle,  he  could  retrieve  the  family  fortunes,  and 
place  himself  on  an  equal  plane  with  Olivia.  For  money 
itself  he  cared  little;  for  the  emancipation  it  represented, 
much.  He  wanted  to  be  able  to  say  in  that  realm  of  the 
impossible  where  lovers  live,  "  I  could  ask  her  to  marry 
me."  He  wanted  to  be  rich  that  he  might  forget  her 
intolerable  wealth. 

"  How  about  the  Street  ?  If  I  had  any  leaning 
toward  speculation  I  am  in  the  way  of  magnificent  temp- 
tations. A  patient  gave  me  a  tip  the  other  day,  which 
of  course  I  couldn't  use." 

His  father  gave  an  impatient  shrug. 

"  I  wouldn't  dare  risk  what's  left  to  us.  No,  I  want 
something  solid :  something  that  would  give  me  employ- 

148 


THE    CITY 

ment,  too.  I've  had  one  or  two  offers,  but  they  were 
subordinate  positions — you  see  I'm  getting  on,"  he 
added  wistfully. 

Robert  was  silent  for  a  while,  then  he  said: 

"  I'll  look  out  for  that  solid  thing,  father.  I'll  make 
a  point  of  it  when  I  go  back.  We'll  have  you  in  town 
yet,  catching  up  with  the  best  of  them." 

"  I  only  want  to  catch  up  with  myself,"  Erskine 
answered. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  Brooke  and  Robert  went  to 
Dr.  Gorton's.  They  found  him  tending  a  royal  fire  in 
their  honor,  in  the  seldom  used  fireplace  of  the  drawing- 
room.  The  house  was  wrapped  in  the  profound  silence 
of  winter,  the  surrounding  country  being  deep  with 
snow.  Even  the  wind  seemed  muffled  as  it  shook  the 
dry  vines  on  the  porch  pillars,  and  blew  fine,  glittering 
particles  of  snow  and  ice  against  the  window-panes.  A 
sky  of  almost  Italian  depth  and  clearness  overhung  this 
white  world.  In  the  distances  the  mountains  towered, 
their  sides  shining  under  the  low  sun,  meet,  it  would 
seem,  for  the  passing  of  an  angel  host. 

Brooke,  in  the  window-seat,  gave  a  sigh  of  pleasure. 

"  Godfather,  the  city  has  nothing  like  this." 

Robert,  who  was  gazing  into  the  fire,  looked  up. 

"  You're  right,  Brooke :  '  getting  and  spending  we 
lay  waste  our  powers ' — only  it's  mostly  spending." 

Reaction  was  for  the  moment  upon  him  despite  the 
impetus  given  to  his  ambition  by  the  conversation  with 
his  father.  In  returning  to  the  city  he  was  afraid  of  he 
knew  not  what.  For  that  day  at  least  he  wished  that 
he  and  Brooke  were  deep-hidden  in  some  little  home, 
reading  together  by  their  own  fireside,  listening  to  the 
wind  in  the  chimney,  or,  like  the  poet,  to  the  sounds  of 

149 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

frost  at  midnight,  with  the  icicles  on  the  eaves  "  quietly 
shining  to  the  quiet  moon." 

Dr.  Gorton  was  watching  his  face,  his  keen  black 
eyes  full  of  his  own  speculations.  These  children,  with 
their  modern  unrest,  seemed  to  interpret  the  age  to  him. 

"  Well,  if  you've  gotten  that  much  wisdom  out  of 
the  past  three  months,  you've  done  well,"  he  said. 
"Have  you  had  any  interesting  cases,  Robert?" 

Robert  told  his  story,  the  old  man  listening  with 
warm  appreciation.  Despite  his  dissatisfaction  with 
Robert's  choice  of  environment,  his  interest  in  his  god- 
son's career  remained  superlative. 

The  ringing  of  the  telephone  interrupted  their  con- 
versation. When  Dr.  Gorton  came  back  he  said: 

"  I  am  called  to  an  operation  in  a  farmhouse  about 
five  miles  from  here.  Would  you  like  to  come  along  ? 
The  sleigh  will  hold  us  all." 

They  responded  joyfully.  It  was  an  afternoon  that 
ever  afterward  stood  out  to  Brooke  in  clear  outlines  of 
pure  delight.  The  ride  through  the  bright,  intense  cold, 
the  fairy  panoramas  of  winter  landscape,  the  tramp 
through  the  hushed  woods  in  search  of  a  tree  for  the 
children,  the  ride  home  in  a  crimson  twilight  with  Robert 
his  old  gay  self — all  these  things  took  her  for  the  hour 
into  the  sweet,  bright  rapture  of  recovered  life. 

On  her  return  home  she  went  to  the  nursery,  her 
cheeks  glowing  with  the  cold  and  with  pleasure,  her 
whole  being  energized,  filled  with  fresh  faith.  At  the 
door  she  met  her  father,  who  had  been  having  one  of 
his  rare  conversations  with  his  wife.  He  complimented 
Brooke  on  her  appearance.  Her  little  success  in  town 
made  him  see  possibilities  in  her. 

She  laughed  and  thanked  him,  and  went  in  to  her 
ISO 


THE    CITY 

mother,  who  scanned  her  face  anxiously  as  she  entered; 
then  her  own  brightened. 

"  You're  happy,  Brooke." 

The  girl  hesitated,  then  with  a  manner  touched  with 
shyness  she  said: 

"Haven't  I  seemed  happy?" 

Mrs.  Peyton  drew  her  down  until  her  cheek  was 
against  that  of  the  sleeping  child. 

"  It  was  my  fancy,  perhaps.  There  are  moments 
when  I  would  like  to  go  back  twenty  years,  and  have 
you  as  Richard  is." 

"  If  we  only  could  go  back.  But  it  is  always  going 
forward,  always  change,  always  something  new  to  get 
used  to." 

She  spoke  in  a  meditative,  passive  voice,  for  the  in- 
fluence of  the  afternoon  was  still  upon  her.  Then  she 
turned  and  looked  closely  at  her  mother. 

"Are  you  well,  mummie — quite  well?" 

"  Not  always.  You  see,  Brooke — "  she  began,  then 
paused,  with  a  look  of  timidity  and  apology  in  her  eyes 
that  for  the  moment  the  girl  did  not  understand.  As 
it  slowly  dawned  upon  her  what  was  meant,  she  gave 
an  impatient,  half-angry  gesture. 

"  Oh,  mother,  I'm  so  sorry !  I  would  rather  hear  any- 
thing than  that.  I  can't  leave  you  if  you — if  you're 
needing  me.  Is  there  no  mercy  for  women  in  the 
scheme  of  things!"  she  wanted  to  add,  but  she  kept 
back  the  words,  stroking  her  mother's  hand  the  while. 

"  No,  it's  better  for  you  to  stay  in  town  now.  You've 
been  a  help.  Perhaps — afterward " 

"When  will— it  be?" 

"  About  July." 

"  Does  it  worry  you,  dearest?  " 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  This  time,  yes.  I  feel  too  discouraged  to  go 
through  with  it." 

Brooke  sighed,  then  put  her  arms  about  her  mother 
and  drew  her  close  to  her,  forgetting  in  that  embrace 
all  personal  joy  or  sorrow. 


152 


CHAPTER   XIX 

ROBERT  and  Brooke  returned  to  the  city  after  Christ- 
mas in  a  tranquillity  of  spirit  which  seemed  to  promise 
a  garden  of  their  own  peace  within  the  turmoil.  The 
few  days  at  Trenthampton  had  restored  to  them  some- 
thing of  an  earlier  happiness.  Robert,  alone  with 
Brooke  in  the  winter  woods,  had  made  a  silent  vow  to 
keep  his  very  thoughts  faithful  to  her.  He  would  put 
Olivia  out  of  his  life,  and  with  her  the  haunting  splendor 
of  emotion  that  clung  like  light  about  her  very  name. 
If  he  had  missed  a  supreme  experience,  he  must  forget 
even  his  loss. 

He  looked  about  for  defenses.  The  obvious  one  he 
presented  at  once  to  Brooke  for  her  judgment.  They 
were  walking  home  one  evening  when  he  said  to  her 
directly  and  without  preliminaries: 

"Dear,  when  are  we  going  to  be  married?" 

Her  look  of  astonishment  told  him  many  things. 

"  Haven't  you  thought  of  it  lately  ?  "  he  said,  a  note 
of  resentment  in  his  voice. 

"  Yes,  but  I  did  not  know  that  you  had,"  she  answered 
gently. 

"  I  think  of  it  a  good  deal,"  he  replied. 

A  look  of  happiness  came  into  her  face. 

"  I  am  glad,"  she  said.  "  You  remember  the  evening 
we  were  at  Ethelberta's.  I  thought  then  that  we  should 
have  to  wait  for  years,  because  you  said  such  a  life  would 
be  intolerable  to  you." 

"  It  doesn't  seem  quite  tolerable  now,"  he  answered 
11  153 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

with  a  little  smile,  "  but  a  flat  may  not  be  the  inevitable 
solution.  Suppose  we  marry  this  spring,  and  take  a 
couple  of  rooms  in  the  old-fashioned  part  of  the  town; 
big  rooms  in  a  decayed-grandeur  mansion." 

She  was  silent,  struggling  with  the  old,  cruel  doubt. 
To  marry  him,  to  chain  him  forever  with  her  love,  seemed 
an  easy  solution  of  the  difficulty  viewed  from  one  stand- 
point; from  another  it  appeared  to  her — curiously 
enough — like  an  attempt  to  enter  heaven  without  the 
password.  She  knew  now  that  he  had  never  uttered  it 
in  her  hearing. 

"  Doesn't  it  appeal  to  you?"  he  questioned,  and  her 
quick  ear  caught  the  note  of  relief  in  his  voice. 

She  bent  her  soul  to  a  heavy  weight  of  falsehood. 

"  No,  it  doesn't  appeal  to  me,  dear,"  she  said,  "  at 
least  not  under  present  conditions.  As  things  go  in 
this  town  we  can  scarcely  afford  marriage  yet.  I'm  not 
always  good-tempered  when  I  cook,"  she  added  with  a 
charming  smile  that  caught  his  soul  midway  in  its  flight 
from  a  possible  prison. 

He  laughed. 

"  And  my  hair  isn't  long  enough  to  insure  a  poetic 
view  of  deprivation.  Let's  worry  along  till  next  year, 
when  surely  things  will  happen." 

His  good  spirits  told  her  how  great  was  his  relief. 
She  smiled  with  him,  knowing  that  you  must  smile  with 
the  person  you  love  to  keep  him,  though  to  keep  a  per- 
son who  loves  you,  frowns  will  serve. 

And  Brooke's  cause  was  strengthened  for  the  pres- 
ent by  her  refusal.  In  the  first  joy  of  his  reprieve  Rob- 
ert's affection  for  her  was  strengthened  and  delicately 
adorned  with  fresh  flowers  of  admiration.  He  longed  to 
be  completely  hers,  but  longing  had  little  power  over  ful- 

154 


THE    CITY 

filment.  His  appreciation  of  her  was  becoming  more 
and  more  intellectual,  and  sometimes  her  very  sinceri- 
ties were  tedious  to  him  like  the  virtues  of  an  unloved 
wife. 

To  Olivia's  he  went  no  more.  His  days  were  given 
up  to  unceasing  work,  his  evenings  to  Brooke.  As  the 
fascination  of  his  labors  grew  upon  him  he  wondered  if 
a  man's  true  mistress  were  not  his  chosen  occupation. 
He  had  always  regarded  the  office  of  a  physician  as 
something  involving  a  wide  range  of  spiritual  percep- 
tions for  its  perfecting;  involving,  indeed,  an  almost  uni- 
versal knowledge  of  character,  of  social  conditions,  of 
the  obscurer  forces  and  influences  at  work  in  the  body 
politic.  In  his  ministrations  he  always  remembered  the 
soul,  though  he  did  not  seek  to  define  it. 

During  this  period  of  quiet,  uninterrupted  labor,  he 
was  in  closer  communication  with  the  household  at 
Trenthampton,  for  he  keenly  desired  to  put  his  father 
in  the  way  of  some  business  interest  that  would  again 
give  him  an  aim  in  life.  His  intentions,  however,  were 
stronger  than  his  power  of  execution.  In  a  world  with 
which  he  was  not  familiar,  Robert  was  forced  to  go 
cautiously.  More  than  once  the  plans  which  he  un- 
folded to  his  father  were  little  more  than  a  commentary 
on  his  inexperienced  business  judgment.  But  the  quest 
itself  was  salutary  in  bringing  the  older  and  the  younger 
man  together,  and  in  keeping  Robert's  thoughts  from 
Olivia. 

She  meanwhile  was  entering  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  a  valley  of  humiliation.  It  was  not  the  fact  of  Rob- 
ert's withdrawal  from  her  circle  that  hurt  her.  Men 
had  dropped  out  of  her  life  before,  because  she  could 
not  love  them.  What  aroused  this  new,  resented  suffer- 

155 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

ing  was  her  own  longing  to  see  him.  There  were  hours 
when  she  desired  to  lay  aside  every  ambition,  every 
principle  of  honor,  and  wresting  him  from  Brooke,  from 
all  the  world,  make  his  life  forever  tributary  to  hers. 
A  passion  as  strong  as  it  was  clear-sighted  took  posses- 
sion of  her,  though  not  without  her  protest  and  resent- 
ment. No  plan  of  her  life  had  ever  allowed  for  the  pos- 
sibility that  she  herself  might  love,  though  she  had  built 
prisons  for  the  souls  of  others :  prisons  indeed  not  unlike 
palaces  in  design  and  adornment,  but  with  high  and 
thick  surrounding  walls. 

Having  no  faculty  for  self-deception,  she  knew  per- 
fectly well  that  she  would  take  Robert  from  Brooke  if 
she  could  break  down  his  resistance.  She  made  no  ex- 
cuses for  herself,  as  a  weaker  woman  might  have  done. 
Olivia  had  only  contempt  for  the  subterfuges  by  which 
some  women  twist  the  moral  code  to  soothe  their  con- 
sciences. 

But  would  Robert  yield?  The  uncertainty  of  the 
answer  stimulated  at  once  her  curiosity  and  her  longing 
to  make  him  wholly  hers.  Distrusting  her  tempera- 
ment, she  sometimes  asked  herself  if  she  would  cease 
to  love  him  if  he  were  wholly  hers. 

She  thought  not;  in  any  case  she  could  always  pre- 
serve her  love  for  him  by  not  marrying  him. 

She  was  sitting  in  her  little  study  one  dreary  day 
toward  the  end  of  February,  in  company  with  Dr.  Faus- 
tus,  whose  inscrutable  eyes  were  narrowed  to  yellow 
slits.  Her  thoughts  were  of  Robert.  She  had  sent  no 
word  to  him  these  weeks,  her  pride  forbidding  inquiries, 
but  in  her  heart  she  dwelt  continually  with  him,  keeping 
that  silence  in  which  all  strong  emotions  are  born,  and 
in  which  all  weak  ones  die. 

156 


THE    CITY 

Her  mother  rustled  in.  In  her  round  face  was  a  look 
of  maternal  concern.  For  several  weeks  she  had 
watched  Olivia  anxiously,  thinking  that  this  wonderful, 
inaccessible  daughter  seemed  not  wholly  well  and 
bright. 

"Did  I  hear  you  cough,  'Livy,  dear?"  she  began 
with  timid  diplomacy. 

Olivia  smiled. 

"  No,  you  didn't,  mother,  as  you  know  perfectly  well, 
and  I  don't  think  you  ever  will." 

"  No  one  thinks  they're  run  down  these  days,"  Mrs. 
Winwood  said  with  a  touch  of  resentment.  "  I  suppose 
it's  not  swell  to  be  sick." 

"  No,  it  is  as  unfashionable  as  interest  in  theology," 
Olivia  said. 

"  Now  don't  make  fun  of  me.  You  know  well 
enough  what  I  mean.  When  I  was  a  girl  we  took  what 
the  good  Lord  sent,  and  didn't  turn  up  our  noses  at  the 
proper  remedies." 

"  I  am  in  splendid  health." 

"  Well,  you  look  peaked  to  me.  You  haven't  a  mite 
of  color." 

Olivia  laughed. 

"  I  never  did  have.  What  perfume  is  that  you  are 
using?  " 

"Don't  you  like  it?" 

"  No,  dear,  not  very  much.  You  should  always  let 
me  select  your  perfumes." 

"  It  cost  four  dollars  an  ounce,"  Mrs.  Winwood  said 
apologetically. 

Olivia  made  no  comment. 

"Are  you  expecting  anybody  this  afternoon?" 

"  Yes,  Paul  Mallory." 

157 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  I  like  that  young  man.  Are  you  going  to  marry 
him,  Olivia?" 

"  Perhaps,  if  I  don't  change  my  mind." 

"Don't  you  know?    Ain't  you  sure  you  love  him?" 

"  Love  him !  "  Her  low  laugh  rang  out.  She  stooped 
over  the  cat. — "  Oh,  Faustus !  what  funny  logic !  " 

Mrs.  Winwood  bestowed  one  of  her  rare  frowns  on 
her  daughter. 

"  Olivia,  you  give  me  goose-flesh  sometimes.  The 
Lord  only  knows  how  I  ever  came  to  have  you." 

Olivia  put  up  her  arms,  and  drew  the  fat,  tight  form 
down  beside  her. 

"  Poor  little  mother!  You  ought  to  have  had  a 
blond  dumpling,  who  would  have  said  her  prayers  o' 
nights." 

"  We  might  have  fought.  We'd  'a'  been  too  much 
alike,"  Mrs.  Winwood  said,  getting  up  with  a  puff  from 
her  crouching  position. 

"  Are  you  going  out  now,  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  going  to  hear  about  a  Bab.  It's  some 
kind  of  a  new  religion.  I  told  Mrs.  Denton  I  was  a 
Presbyterian  in  Trenthampton,  but  without  prejudice. 
She  said  this  wouldn't  interfere." 

Olivia  bent  over  the  cat  again,  hiding  her  face  in  the 
long  black  fur. 

When  Paul  Mallory  was  announced  an  hour  later, 
he  found  her  in  street-dress,  a  kind  of  costume  which 
always  aroused  in  him  a  feeling  of  insecurity,  as  if  she 
might  at  any  moment  escape  him.  She  had  seemed 
to  him  of  late  more  elusive  than  ever,  arousing  the  hunt- 
ing instinct  in  him  despite  his  old-fashioned  belief  that 
you  ought  only  to  offer  your  heart  to  a  woman,  and 
then  stand  in  dignified  silence  until  she  took  it. 

158 


THE    CITY 

But  the  Napoleonic  attitude  seemed  to  make  little 
impression  upon  Olivia,  so  the  would-be  conqueror 
abandoned  philosophy  and  gave  himself  up  to  the  for- 
tunes of  practical  warfare.  His  air  of  decision  on  this 
afternoon  drew  her  attention. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  had  just  settled  an  important 
question,"  she  said  after  their  greetings. 

"  I  have." 

"What  is  it,  if  I  may  ask?" 

"  I  am  determined  that  you  shall  marry  me." 

She  laughed. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  marry  me,  Paul?  Do  you 
know  why?" 

"  Because  I  love  you  as  I  never  loved  any  other 
woman." 

"  I  remember  having  had  that  said  to  me  before." 

"  Unfortunately  there  is  but  one  way  of  saying  it. 
Olivia,  have  you  no  heart?" 

"  No,  but  I  have  imagination,  and  perhaps  tact. 
Aren't  those  good  substitutes?  At  least  they  insure 
against  blunders,  and  blunders  are  what  separate  people." 

Paul  looked  hopeless. 

"  I  know  how  you  feel,"  she  said  gently,  going  by 
one  of  her  quick  transitions  from  mockery  to  tenderness. 
"  You  are  seeking  the  beatific  vision,  not  of  God,  but  of 
woman;  and  you  think  you  have  found  it  in  me." 

"  I  place  you  next  to  Him,"  he  said,  a  pale  religious 
light  spreading  over  his  face,  turning  him  from  the  man 
of  the  world  into  a  monk  or  confessor. 

"  Ah,  don't  do  that.  I  will  tell  you  what  I  am — a 
supreme  egotist." 

He  smiled  sadly. 

"  It  does  not  matter  to  me  what  you  say  you  are." 
159 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  she  said  musingly.  "  I  sup- 
pose you  take  comfort  in  your  little  dream.  Do  you 
want  to  go  with  me  to  the  East  Side?  "  she  added.  "  A 
friend  of  mine  who  lives  over  there  expects  me  this 
afternoon.  I  shall  take  a  street-car." 

"  Do  I  want  to  go  with  you!  Don't  you  know  what 
it  means  to  me  to  be  with  you?  " 

She  smiled. 

"  I  must  have  missed  a  good  deal  in  missing  super- 
latives. I  will  rejoin  you  in  a  moment." 

She  came  down  in  her  white  furs,  looking  like  an 
incarnation  of  winter.  Paul  gazed  at  her  in  silent  ad- 
miration. His  delight  in  accompanying  her  changed  the 
drab  city  into  gold.  Even  the  crowded  streets  of  the 
lower  East  Side  seemed  to  him  lovely  as  lanes  of  para- 
dise. Passers-by  looked  at  Olivia,  but  however  evi- 
dent their  poverty,  there  was  no  resentment  in  their 
look.  She  did  not  seem  aloof  from  them,  only  beauti- 
ful and  comforting  to  eyes  that  rested  always  on  the 
sordid. 

She  turned  at  last  into  the  narrow,  badly  lighted  hall 
of  a  tenement. 

"  Will  you  wait  for  me  here?  I'll  only  be  a  few  mo- 
ments." 

"  Yes,  but  is  it  quite  safe  for  you  to  go  up  there 
alone?"  he  asked,  looking  apprehensively  up  the  steep, 
dark  stairway. 

"  Safe!     I'd  be  safe  among  brigands." 

She  went  lightly  up  flight  after  flight  until  she  reached 
a  door  opening  on  a  comparatively  clean  and  quiet 
landing.  Here  Firefly  lived  with  another  girl,  also  a 
dancer. 

Her  knock  brought  eager  steps  to  the  door. 
160 


THE    CITY 

"  I  knew  it  was  you.  You  knock  like  a  lady,"  the 
girl  said,  drawing  her  in  greedily.  "  I've  dreamed  of 
your  coming  all  week." 

"  On  that  little  white  bed?  "  Olivia  said,  smiling  and 
sinking  into  a  chair,  while  Aurelia  fumbled  at  her  furs 
to  undo  them. 

"  Yes,  that's  mine.  Jennie  sleeps  in  the  next  room. 
We  cook  in  there  'cause  it's  bigger." 

"Where  are  you  going  to  sit?" 

"  On  the  floor  here  by  you,"  she  answered,  fluttering 
down  with  professional  grace,  and  reaching  for  Olivia's 
hand,  which  she  clasped  tightly. 

"How's  Jim?"  Olivia  asked. 

"  Botherin'  the  life  out  of  me  as  usual.  He  wants  to 
get  married  right  off." 

"  And  don't  you  want  to  get  married,  Firefly?  " 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  A  mournful  expression 
crept  into  her  face. 

"  Some  day — mebbe.     I  ain't  hankering  to." 

"  You'd  be  better  off  with  a  good,  kind  boy  like 
Jim,"  Olivia  said,  touching  the  girl's  hair  softly. 

"  Yes,  he's  kind,  Jim  is,"  she  answered,  puckering 
her  brow.  After  a  moment's  silence  she  added: 

"  Have  you — have  you  seen  Dr.  Erskine  lately?  " 

"  No,  not  since  I  saw  you  last  at  the  hospital." 

Firefly  sighed. 

"  He  said  you  was  his  friend." 

"  I  am." 

"  If  you  should  see  him,  give  him  my  best  regards — 
and  Jim's." 

"  I  will  not  forget  to." 

Olivia  had  an  impulse  to  put  her  arm  about  this 
blond  butterfly,  to  hold  her  an  instant  to  her  heart, 

161 


THE     PORT    OF    STORMS 

because  of  what  she  read  in  the  girl's  face,  but  she  re- 
mained passive.  She  never  obeyed  her  impulses. 

When  she  rose  to  go,  however,  she  took  the  girl's 
hand  in  a  strong,  warm  grasp. 

"  Don't  keep  Jim  waiting  too  long.  Let  me  know 
when  it  will  be,  and  I  will  send  you  your  linen." 

Firefly  smiled,  but  shook  her  head. 

'  'Twon't  be  this  year,  I  guess.  I  fell  up-stairs  this 
morning.  You're  comin'  to  see  me  dance  some  night, 
ain't  you,  Miss  Winwood?  " 

On  the  way  up-town  Olivia  dismissed  Paul  abruptly. 
Then  getting  off  the  car  herself  at  the  next  crossing, 
she  turned  into  the  quiet  old-fashioned  street  in  which 
Robert  had  his  office.  A  nervous  coldness,  new  to  her, 
made  her  shiver  as  she  went  up  the  steps  and  rang  the 
bell. 

The  little  servant  who  answered  it  looked  her  over 
with  surprise.  Evidently  Robert's  patients  were  of  a 
different  class. 

In  the  barren  waiting-room,  with  its  few  stiff  chairs 
and  litter  of  old  magazines,  their  covers  curled  at  the 
corners,  Olivia  had  a  minute  or  two  in  which  to  regain 
her  accustomed  confidence.  She  was  herself  again 
when  Robert's  tall  figure  emerged  from  an  adjoin- 
ing room,  his  face  chalk-white  against  the  gathering 
darkness. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said  unsteadily. 
"  Come  into  the  office.  It  is  warmer  in  there.  Do  you 
mind  the  smell  of  chemicals?  I  have  been  at  work  in 
my  laboratory." 

"  No,  Robert,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice.  "  I 
don't  mind  anything." 

162 


THE    CITY 

On  the  threshold  of  the  office  she  paused. 

"  So  this  is  your  workshop  ?  I'm  glad  you  have 
that  little  grate  fire.  Let  me  see  your  outlook."  She 
crossed  the  room  and  raised  the  shade.  "  That  is  good; 
you  have  a  bit  of  a  garden." 

The  cry  of  his  heart  kept  him  silent.  If  she  had 
entered  in  her  old  dominant  way,  he  could  have  met  her 
with  the  barrier  which  all  these  weeks  he  had  laboriously 
striven  to  create  between  himself  and  his  very  thoughts ; 
but  her  gentle,  appealing  manner  was  overcoming  him. 
He  longed  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  to  pour  out  to  her 
his  wild,  incredible  story. 

She  seated  herself  before  the  fire  and  leaned  forward, 
one  elbow  on  her  knee,  her  chin  resting  in  the  palm  of 
her  hand. 

"  My  mother  thinks  I'm  not  well,"  she  said,  in  a  tired 
voice.  "  I  am,  of  course,  in  perfect  health,  but  I  stopped 
in  here  just  to  satisfy  her.  You  can  feel  my  pulse,"  she 
added  with  a  little  smile,  beginning  to  strip  off  her  glove, 
"  and  perhaps  write  me  out  a  sugar-and-water  prescrip- 
tion." 

Then  Robert  for  the  first  time  raised  his  eyes  and 
looked  steadily  at  her.  She  did  not  meet  his  look,  but 
in  her  downward  glance,  in  the  faint  quiver  of  her  lips,  he 
read  something  that  filled  him  at  once  with  joy  and  with 
terror.  For  a  moment  he  stood  quite  silent,  then,  as 
she  bared  her  wrist  he  bent  a  little  forward.  But  some- 
thing in  him,  the  principle  of  honor  which  he  had  strug- 
gled to  maintain  during  these  past  weeks,  was  still 
stronger  than  his  love.  He  drew  back,  assuming  again 
his  professional  manner.  With  steady  fingers  he  held 
her  wrist,  then  put  one  or  two  questions  to  her,  which 
she  answered  exactly  and  fully. 

163 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  You  have  no  cold,"  he  said.  "  You  seem  to  me  in 
good  health." 

A  look  of  amusement  passed  over  her  face. 

"  You  will  never  make  a  metropolitan  physician,  Rob- 
ert. If  I  haven't  a  cold,  will  you  please  tell  me  what, 
precisely,  is  the  matter  with  me  ?  " 


164 


CHAPTER  XX 

HE  did  not  reply  for  a  moment  or  two,  then  he 
said: 

"Do  you  insist  that  there  is  something  the  matter? 
Have  you  come  to  make  a  trial  of  my  skill  ?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  No,  only  of  your  powers  of  invention.  I  see  they 
are  limited ;  that  you  refuse,  like  a  true  scientist,  to  take 
one  step  beyond  your  facts.  But  what  shall  I  say  to  my 
mother?" 

"  Tell  her  you  are  as  well  as  can  be." 

"  That  won't  satisfy  her.  Give  me  a  prescription  to 
show  her." 

"  Very  well.    Here  is  one  for  quinine." 

"  Bitterness,  Robert  ?  Stop  being  professional,  and 
tell  me  what  you've  been  doing  all  these  weeks.  Have 
you  been  to  Trenthampton  lately  ?  " 

Robert  sat  down  opposite  to  her.  The  rigidity  of  his 
muscles  relaxed;  he  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief,  from 
what  weight  she  could  not  divine. 

"  Brooke  and  I  were  there  over  Christmas." 

"  Are  your  father  and  mother  well  ?  " 

"  My  father  is  restless.    He  misses  his  work." 

"  Naturally,"  she  answered  in  a  sympathetic  voice. 
"  Tell  me — if  you  care  to — more  about  him." 

The  gentleness  of  her  voice,  her  look  of  genuine  in- 
terest, invited  his  confidence.  He  began  to  tell  her  of  his 
father's  state  of  mind,  and  of  his  own  efforts  to  find  for 
him  some  congenial  activity. 

165 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

Olivia  listened  with  a  grave,  intent  expression ;  her 
dark  eyes  softened,  as  if  some  tenderness  awoke  in  her 
which  she  had  the  right  to  feel. 

"  This  hurts  me,"  she  said  in  one  of  his  pauses.  "  Do 
you  know,  Robert,  can  you  realize  what  a  source  of 
trouble  in  my  life  my  father's  genius — for  it  is  a  form 
of  genius — has  been?  He  can't  help  himself.  He  was 
born  to  play  with  millions,  as  children  play  with  balls, 
but  no  great  force  ever  went  on  its  inexorable  way  with- 
out crushing  and  hurting.  Since  I  was  a  very  young 
child  I  have  always  seen  what  it  meant.  Your  father 
escaped  with  a  little  money  and  his  life.  Others  are  not 
so  fortunate.  I  know  of  three  suicides  for  which  the 
action  of  my  father's  corporation  was  directly  responsible. 
Yet  in  private  life  he  is  a  good  and  kind  man." 

Olivia  had  never  spoken  at  such  length  to  him.  She 
was  leaning  forward  in  her  chair,  her  chin  resting  on 
her  hands,  a  real  distress  in  her  face.  He  had  not 
thought  her  capable  of  so  much  feeling,  and  the  reve- 
lation was  another  link  in  the  chain  that  bound  him 
to  her. 

"  I  hated  it  at  first ;  when  it  first  began  to  dawn 
on  me  what  it  all  meant,"  she  went  on,  "  I  almost  hated 
him.  Then  I  grew  accustomed  to  it,  as  you  could  grow 
accustomed,  I  suppose,  to  passing  all  your  days  in  a 
power-house  among  roaring  engines.  It  came  to  seem 
to  me  a  part  of  the  drama  of  life ;  I  tried  to  console  myself 
by  thinking  that  a  certain  percentage  of  humanity  must 
always  suffer  and  go  under,  that  waste  is  as  much  a  part 
of  the  world's  life  as  it  is  of  the  life  of  any  little  house- 
hold; but  my  father's  power  seemed  to  bring  me  too 
close  to  those  wasted  and  wrecked  people.  Their  ghosts 
haunted  me.  They  never  haunted  him." 

166 


THE    CITY 

Robert  leaned  toward  her  and  took  one  of  her  hands 
in  both  of  his. 

"  Thank  you  for  saying  these  things.  It  is  much  that 
you  understand  the  other  side." 

He  did  not  relax  his  hold  at  once,  nor  did  she  draw 
away  her  hand.  Protected  by  the  seriousness  of  their 
subject,  they  came  closer  together  in  spirit  than  ever  be- 
fore. At  last  Robert  seemed  to  recollect.  He  dropped 
her  hand  suddenly,  a  bitter  look  in  his  face. 

"  But  what  of  wealth  accumulated  by  such  means  ?  " 
he  said.  "  What  use  will  you  make  of  it — Olivia  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  fear  I  have  the  habit  of  wealth.  I  knew  a  rich 
man  once  who  had  three  sons  among  whom  to  divide  his 
fortune,  which  was  made  in  the  liquor  traffic.  One  son 
had  entered  the  priesthood,  had  worked  for  years  on  the 
East  Side.  At  his  father's  death  he  refused  his  share 
of  the  inheritance — wouldn't  take  a  penny  of  it.  I  have 
often  wondered  whether  he  were  a  fanatic  or  a  saint. 
What  I  was  sure  of  was  that  I  could  not  do  anything 
like  that.  I  am  too  fond  of  power,  of  the  power  that 
money  brings.  I  think  my  love  of  power  is  the  strongest 
feeling  I  know.  You  see,  Robert,  I  am  not  a  noble 
character." 

She  spoke  with  an  intonation  of  sadness  that  seemed 
prophetic  of  some  future  compromise  with  life  not  wholly 
exalted.  But  Robert  had  never  found  her  so  alluring  as 
in  this  frank,  unreserved  mood. 

"  You  are  at  least  honest,  Olivia." 

"  I  suppose  my  honesty,  my  clear  sight  in  the  matter, 
will  some  day  make  my  damnation  all  the  more  impera- 
tive," she  said  with  a  smile. 

will  render  sentence  ?  " 
167 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  Myself,  I  suppose.  God  always  saves  us,  but  we 
always  damn  ourselves.  He  leaves  that  entirely  to  us — 
which  is  right  and  proper." 

"  Yes,  it's  up  to  us,"  Robert  assented.  "  How  cheer- 
fully most  of  us  go  about  it !  What  energy  we  bring  to 
our  task !  " 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  while.    Finally  Olivia  rose. 

"  Come  home  and  take  dinner  with  me,  and  I  will 
draw  father  out  about  certain  business  deals  that  he 
knows  of.  There  might  be  nothing  that  would  fit  your 
father's  need,  but  you  could  listen  and  make  your  own 
estimates — perhaps  get  a  point  or  two." 

Robert  glanced  down  at  his  clothes. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  change.  My  father  can  only  be 
wheedled  into  his  evening  clothes  when  we  are  going  out. 
You  will  find  him  in  sack  coat.  After  dinner  I  will  play 
some  Norwegian  music  to  you — music  that  must  have 
been  written  under  fir-trees,  with  the  sound  of  the  sea 
coming  through  the  branches.  I  love  the  north." 

"  You  belong  to  it." 

"  I  think  I  do.  The  thought  of  a  frozen,  silent  world 
is  always  calming  to  me.  Shall  I  tell  you  of  a  fantastic 
idea  of  mine — a  wish,  rather?  I've  always  wished  that 
I  could  die  on  some  Alpine  glacier  where  my  body  would 
never  be  found,  but  would  lie  uncorrupted  in  that  cold 
and  brightness  forever." 

He  smiled. 

"  I've  always  wanted  Indian  burial  in  a  treetop." 

"  I  see  we  both  desire  light  and  air,  even  after  death. 
Well,  Robert,  we'd  better  go  off  and  die  somewhere  to- 
gether beyond  the  reach  of  the  well-meaning  but  mis- 
taken survivors." 

Her  look  of  mirth  took  him  with  her  into  an  innocent 
168 


THE    CITY 

friendliness.  His  doubts  and  fears  seemed  swept  away 
by  a  fresh,  wholesome  wind.  He  was  unspeakably  glad 
to  be  with  her,  and  yet  to  be  unconscious  of  wrong  or 
dishonor.  On  their  way  up-town  she  entertained  him 
with  descriptions  of  certain  people  whom  she  had  lately 
met — always  slightly  caricatured. 

It  was  good  to  pass  from  the  raw,  bleak  evening  into 
the  luxurious  warmth  and  brightness  of  the  house.  Mrs. 
Winwood  was  in  the  drawing-room,  looking  like  a  very 
large  and  bewildered  cherub.  She  greeted  her  daughter 
with  fretful  eagerness. 

"  I  knew  you'd  gone  on  foot,  Olivia,  and  I  just  had 
you  under  a  cable-car  or  run  down  by  a  motor. — Dr. 
Erskine,  you're  a  great  stranger.  I'm  real  glad  to  see 
you.  If  I'd  known  you  were  with  'Livy  I'd  not  been  so 
anxious." 

Olivia  excused  herself  to  change  her  dress,  and  Rob- 
ert sat  down  for  a  comfortable  talk  with  Mrs.  Winwood, 
whose  pleasure  in  seeing  him  again  was  genuine.  She 
continued  to  speak  of  her  daughter,  and  Robert  was  only 
too  glad  to  listen.  He  liked  to  hear  of  Olivia's  devotion 
to  her  mother,  of  her  hidden  acts  of  charity,  of  all  those 
qualities  which  counterbalanced  an  inexplicable  element 
of  hardness  in  the  girl's  nature — or  was  it  only  indiffer- 
ence? Yet  she  had  not  shown  herself  indifferent  to  him. 
Did  she  really  care? 

He  put  away  the  question  as  dangerous,  and  went 
back  to  the  obvious  innocent  enjoyments  of  the  evening. 
After  the  long  dinner,  at  which  Olivia  fulfilled  her  prom- 
ise, she  played  for  him.  He  followed  her  through  odd, 
sweet,  interminable  passages  of  music,  now  quivering 
with  a  primitive  eagerness  of  life,  now  disconcerted  with 
the  insoluble  mystery  of  existence,  now  sunny  and  care- 
18  169 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

free,  passing  from  the  deep,  pensive  shadows  to  the  open 
fields,  then  back  again  to  the  darker,  self-conscious  state. 
Deep  in  the  mystic  forests  of  the  north  he  found  him- 
self at  last,  and  quite  alone  with  her. 

The  striking  of  eleven  reminded  him  that  he  would 
be  late  at  the  newspaper  office  if  he  did  not  go  at  once. 
His  good-bys  were  hurried,  but  he  promised  to  come 
soon  again  and  to  bring  Brooke  with  him. 

On  the  way  to  the  office  he  banished  the  thought  of 
Olivia  by  reviewing  Winwood's  observations  on  certain 
business  openings  in  the  town.  After  all,  this  evening 
might  be  of  real  service  to  his  father. 

So  he  quieted  his  conscience,  and  tried  to  forget  where 
her  music  had  led  him.  As  he  passed  along  the  corridors 
of  the  building  he  looked  for  Brooke  at  every  turning. 
Evidently  she  was  working  later  than  usual. 

But  she  was  not  at  the  office,  nor  had  she  been  there 
that  evening,  the  office  boy  said,  eying  him  with  bland 
superiority.  He  turned  away  puzzled ;  then  suddenly  a 
horrid  light  flashed  upon  him.  He  remembered  that  he 
was  to  have  taken  her  to  the  theater  this  evening. 

He  hastened  into  a  telephone  booth.  In  another  mo- 
ment he  heard  her  voice,  and  strained  his  ears  for  the 
note  of  reproach  in  it,  but  he  could  detect  only  relief. 
He  asked  if  he  might  come  and  explain. 

As  he  went  up-town  he  wondered  whether  he  should 
tell  her  the  truth  or  whether  he  should  invent  some  com- 
forting fable.  He  decided  that  his  course  would  depend 
upon  her  mood. 

Brooke  greeted  him  with  her  usual  friendliness, 
though  her  eyes  asked  questions  which  remained  un- 
spoken. It  was  one  of  her  tenets  that  explanations  are 
not  the  parents  of  confidence;  another,  that  discourtesy 

170 


THE    CITY 

can  not  be  explained,  and  the  interferences  of  business  or 
professional  life  need  not  be.  Robert  had  only  to  keep 
silent  or  to  speak  in  general  terms  to  establish  her  belief 
that  some  sudden  call — a  maternity  case,  or  an  accident 
or  a  crisis — had  detained  him. 

He  looked  down  into  her  frank  eyes,  and  hesitated. 
Then  he  said  with  a  visible  effort : 

"  I  was  at  Olivia's." 


171 


CHAPTER   XXI 

LATE  one  evening  in  May,  Brooke  was  crossing  the 
square  before  the  newspaper  buildings.  She  walked  rap- 
idly, as  always  when  forced  to  be  out  alone  at  night,  but 
her  step  was  inelastic,  was  that  of  a  person  passing 
through  scenes  of  which  she  is  scarcely  aware.  This 
physical  revelation  of  a  mental  state  was  further  con- 
firmed by  the  blankness  of  her  face.  Whatever  she  was 
about  to  do  would  be  done  mechanically,  after  the 
manner  of  those  whose  spirits  "  have  gone  down  into 
Egypt." 

Entering  the  office,  which  on  this  May  night  had  a 
peculiarly  stale  and  jaded  aspect,  she  went  directly  to 
the  city  editor. 

"  I  could  not  get  the  Cooper  interview,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  have  the  other.  I'll  have  the  story  ready  for  you 
in  about  an  hour." 

The  editor  looked  keenly  at  her;  then  he  said,  with 
a  kindness  in  his  voice  that  would  have  reached  had  she 
not  been  surrounded  by  a  wall  of  abstraction: 

"  Wednesday's  issue  will  do  just  as  well.  You  look 
rather  done  up,  Miss  Peyton.  You'd  better  stop  off 
to-night." 

"  I'd  rather  turn  in  the  story,"  she  answered ;  "  then 
it  will  be  out  of  the  way." 

She  went  to  her  place  at  the  long  desk  and  mechan- 
ically took  out  her  fountain-pen.  Hugh  Bradley,  who 
was  watching  her  with  a  concerned  expression,  pushed 

172 


THE    CITY 

some   fresh   copy-paper  toward  her  and    nodded   good 
evening. 

She  began  to  write,  scarcely  knowing  what  she  put 
down,  scarcely  seeing  the  page  before  her.  What  she 
did  see  was  a  ballroom  in  which  many  people  were 
dancing.  Robert  was  among  them,  and  Olivia.  How 
beautiful  Olivia  must  look  to-night!  The  music  of  the 
waltz  sounded  in  Brooke's  ears. 

Her  mind  reviewed  the  weeks  of  a  season  which  was 
never  again  to  recur  without  memories  like  a  chill  of 
death  among  its  warm  and  scented  winds.  Had  she 
dreamed  it  all — Robert's  isolation  even  in  their  closest 
companionship ;  her  own  doubts  giving  way  gradually  to 
a  literal  and  merciless  knowledge,  still  to  be  dealt  with, 
still  faced  only  in  thought. 

The  dancers  were  swaying  to  wild  and  still  wilder 
measures,  as  if  before  some  pagan  altar.  The  music, 
unholy,  brilliant,  intoxicating,  seemed  to  fill  the  air  with 
quivering  flames.  Brooke  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes 
and  shook  her  head.  Bradley,  watching  her  furtively, 
had  seen  that  gesture  repeated  and  repeated  during  the 
past  weeks.  It  gave  him  an  uncanny  feeling. 

She  bent  over  the  paper  and  wrote  rapidly.  For  a 
while  she  held  the  ballroom  away  from  her  eyes.  Her 
hard,  mocking  thoughts  left  her,  left  her  weak  and  help- 
less, like  the  demon-haunted  child  that  Christ  delivered. 
Softer  emotions  crept  into  her  heart,  and  now  the  scene 
changed  to  the  mountains  above  her  home,  and  Robert 
was  with  her. 

Her  head  drooped  nearer  and  nearer  the  paper.  After 
a  while  she  became  conscious  of  a  friendly  voice  saying 
in  a  low,  helpless  monotone : 

"  O  my  God !  not  tears !  " 
173 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  cheek.  It  was  wet.  The 
paper  before  her  bore  little  blistered  marks.  She  looked 
across  at  Bradley,  and  tried  to  smile. 

"  This  is  unpardonable — in  a  newspaper  office !  "  she 
said. 

"  Hang  the  newspaper ! "  he  answered,  scowling. 
"  You  don't  feel  well,  Miss  Peyton." 

"  I'm  a  bit  tired,"  she  said  apologetically. 

He  nodded,  suddenly  left  his  place  and  bolted  out  of 
the  door.  In  a  few  moments  he  returned,  carefully  carry- 
ing a  bulging  paper  bag,  which  he  put  down  beside  her. 

"  Tea  and  sinkers  from  a  neighboring  foundry,"  he 
explained,  "  also  a  chicken  sandwich  warranted  fresh 
last  week.  No  texts  thrown  in." 

"  You  are  a  real  friend,"  Brooke  said,  smiling  and 
forcing  back  the  tears  which  his  act  had  brought  again 
perilously  near  the  surface.  "  Did  you  think  I  looked 
hungry  ?  " 

"  Eating  is  my  remedy  for  everything,"  he  answered. 
"  I  eat  when  I  have  sorrow,  when  I  have  joy,  and  always 
when  I  have  the  price.  I  would  have  brought  something 
under  a  silver  cover,  in  the  style  of  Delmonico,  but,  as 
you  are  aware,  it  is  the  day  before  the  ghost  walks." 

Brooke  laughed. 

"  Please  eat  the  sandwich  and  the  doughnuts.  I 
couldn't  touch  them,  for  I'm  not  hungry ;  but  I'll  drink 
the  tea." 

Bradley  did  as  he  was  told,  looking  remorsefully  at 
her  between  bites. 

"  Story  nearly  finished  ?  "  he  queried. 

"  Just  a  stick  or  two  more,"  she  answered. 

"  That's  good.  After  it's  done,  I  beg  that  you  will 
let  me  see  you  home.  What  a  strange,  archaic,  far-away 

174 


THE    CITY 

sound  the  word  has  in  this  little  old  town,"  he  added 
dreamily,  breaking  a  doughnut. 

"  Do  you  live  far  from  here  ?  " 

"  My  ancestral  hall  is  in  North  Dakota.  Merger  and 
I  share  what  the  landlord  euphoniously  calls  a  sumptuous 
suite  on  Tenth  Street.  Nothing  in  it  is  what  it  appears 
to  be,  but  is  something  else.  I  am  constantly  mistaking 
the  bookcase  for  the  dining-table." 

He  rattled  on,  hiding  with  his  nonsense  the  traces  of 
embarrassment  left  in  her  manner  by  his  discovery  of 
her  tears.  Brooke  was  conscious  through  all  her  inward 
surge  and  tumult  how  delicately  chivalrous  was  the  spirit 
which  served  her,  and  her  gratitude  brought  her  at  last 
into  a  calmer  mood. 

Half  an  hour  later  when  she  entered  the  studio 
she  found  her  aunt  sitting  up  for  her.  Angelica  regarded 
her  with  a  grave,  anxious  look. 

"  Did  Robert  bring  you  home  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Where  is  he  to-night  ?  "  she  asked  with  a  note  of 
sharpness  in  her  voice. 

"  At  a  dance." 

"At  Olivia's?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  aren't  you  with  him  ?  " 

"  I  declined  the  invitation." 

Brooke's  tone  was  gentle,  but  something  in  her  face 
forbade  further  questioning.  She  began  to  undress,  and 
Angelica  rose,  and,  going  into  an  adjoining  room,  stripped 
a  couch  of  its  cover  and  cushions,  turned  down  the  bed, 
and  put  a  carafe  of  fresh  water  at  the  bed's  head.  It 
relieved  her  pent-up  feelings  thus  to  minister  to  Brooke. 

When  her  niece  had  said  good  night  to  her,  Angelica 
175 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

sat  down  at  her  desk  and  began  to  read  a  manuscript 
which  she  had  received  with  orders  to  "  rush."  But  her 
mind  wandered.  She  found  herself  listening  for  sounds 
from  the  next  room.  Once  she  went  to  the  door  and 
looked  in,  but  all  was  silent. 

One  o'clock  struck.  An  intense  stillness  had  settled 
down  upon  the  house,  broken  only  at  intervals  by  the 
distant  roar  of  the  elevated  trains.  Suddenly  Angelica 
looked  up  and  gave  a  little  cry.  Brooke,  ghost-like  in 
her  night-gown,  was  standing  motionless  at  the  door  of 
her  room. 

"  Child,  how  you  frightened  me !  What  is  it  ?  Did 
something  wake  you  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  been  asleep,"  Brooke  said.  She  hesitated. 
"  Aunt  Angelica,  would  you  take  a  note  out  for  me  if  I 
wrote  one  ?  " 

"  But  it  is  after  midnight.  The  last  collection  is 
eleven." 

"  I  know,  but  I  want  this  taken  up  early." 

"  Very  well,  just  as  you  wish." 

"  You  don't  mind  going  out  with  it?  " 

"  Of  course  not,  if  it  will  be  any  comfort  to  you." 

A  shudder  went  through  the  girl's  frame.  Angelica 
looked  pitifully  at  her,  but  did  not  make  any  comment. 

The  note  was  soon  written.  Angelica  wished  that  it 
had  taken  longer  to  write.  When  Brooke  held  it  out  to 
her  she  glanced  at  the  superscription,  though  she  knew 
perfectly  well  to  whom  it  was  addressed. 


176 


CHAPTER   XXII 

BROOKE  was  walking  restlessly  about  the  studio,  now 
flooded  with  the  cheerful  light  of  early  afternoon.  Over 
twelve  hours  had  elapsed  since  the  writing  of  the  note. 
The  time  which  she  had  set  for  seeing  Robert  was  ap- 
proaching and  she  was  not  prepared.  She  had  spent  the 
morning  seeking  that  calmness,  that  dignity,  that  reason- 
ableness, indeed,  which  should  be  the  accompaniment  of 
any  passage  of  importance  from  one  state  to  another,  but 
her  life  still  struggled  fearfully  with  labored,  suffocating 
breaths.  All  the  scenes  of  her  existence  rose  before  her 
as  memories  upon  which  she  had  no  further  claim,  since 
Robert  was  their  central  figure. 

Why  had  she  not  been  able  to  hold  him?  They  had 
been,  were  still,  indeed,  so  much  to  each  other — so  much, 
but  not  all.  She  had  gone  as  far  as  she  could,  but  where 
her  wall  was,  there  began  his  open  road. 

Through  Brooke's  brain  went  stray  cries  of  human 
sorrow,  of  long-forgotten  warfare  and  pain  that  had  been 
asleep  a  thousand  years. 

"  I  am  afflicted  and  ready  to  die  from  my  youth  up : 
while  I  suffer  thy  terrors  I  am  distracted." 

"  Lover  and  friend  hast  thou  put  far  from  me,  and 
mine  acquaintance  into  darkness." 

There  was  a  knock.  Brooke's  lips  moved,  but  no 
sound  came  from  them.  Then  she  crossed  the  room  and 
opened  the  door.  Robert  stood  in  the  hallway,  an  ex- 
pectant figure.  At  the  sight  of  him  the  voices  within 
her  became  quiet,  the  intruding  visions  cleared  away. 

"  Come  in,  Robert.  I  have  been  waiting — a  long 
177 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

time,"  she  said,  her  voice  sounding  to  her  strange  and 
far  off,  like  a  ventriloquist's. 

"  I  got  your  note,"  he  said  as  he  entered. 

He  was  pale  and  worn,  with  something  refined  and 
encloistered  about  him,  as  if  what  he  had  suffered  had 
been  a  veritable  "  passion  in  the  desert."  A  certain  dig- 
nity held  his  form  erect,  even  as  he  looked  at  Brooke 
with  a  cry  for  forgiveness  in  his  eyes. 

She  led  the  way  across  the  room,  a  tense,  remote  fig- 
ure, with  all  the  unfamiliarity  about  her  lent  by  her  lonely 
purpose.  Seating  herself  at  the  window,  she  motioned 
him  to  a  chair.  He  shook  his  head  and  remained  stand- 
ing, waiting  for  her  to  speak. 

"  You  must  know  why  I  have  sent  for  you,"  she  said 
at  last. 

"  I  know  why,"  he  answered  with  a  note  of  harshness 
in  his  voice. 

"  I  should  have  broken  our  engagement  a  month 
ago,"  she  said,  "  but  I  had  not  the  courage.  I  set  you 
free  now,  Robert." 

She  drew  the  ring  from  her  finger  and  handed  it  to 
him.  He  took  it  mechanically,  and  held  it  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand.  Then  he  raised  his  eyes. 

"What  if  I  should  refuse  to  release  you?" 

"  You  will  not  refuse — you  can  not.  You  can  not 
marry  me,  loving  another  woman." 

"  How  do  you  know  I  love  another  woman  ?  "  he  said 
hoarsely,  his  manner  dogged,  filled  with  resentment,  not 
of  her,  it  would  seem,  but  of  some  fact  which  he  still 
would  not  acknowledge. 

"  Robert,"  she  cried  appealingly,  "  be  honest  with  me 
now.  It  is  no  time  for  cowardice.  Face  it  as  I  am 
doing." 

178 


THE    CITY 

"  Face  my  dishonor ! "  he  said  with  bitterness. 

"  If  it  is  real,  it  is  no  dishonor.  The  wrong  would 
be  in  remaining  in  a  false  relation.  You  go  on — you 
have  to  go  on." 

"  So  it  seems.  It  seems  that  you  are  forcing  me  to 
an  issue.  Remember,  you,  not  I,  break  this  engage- 
ment." 

"  You  broke  it  long  ago.  But  not  without  a  struggle. 
You  did  struggle,  but  you  were  in  the  grip  of  something 
too  strong  for  you." 

He  winced  at  her  words. 

"  Brooke,  I  can  at  least  say  to  you  that,  to  this 
hour," — he  hesitated. 

She  smiled  faintly. 

"  Only  the  spirit  counts,  not  the  letter.  She  has — 
the  real  thing." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  she  has ;  but  I  know  what  you 
are  taking  from  me." 

" — what  belongs  to  Olivia." 

"  I  don't  know  to  this  day  what  she " 

" — thinks?  feels?  That  is  not  the  question.  It  is 
what  you  feel." 

He  turned  his  head  away.  For  a  while  silence  reigned. 
Brooke  broke  it.  She  began  to  speak  in  a  low  monotone : 

"  Robert,  I  understand  better  than  you  think.  You 
care  for  her  as  a  man  cares  but  once  in  his  life.  You 
found  in  me  your  dearest  friend,  but  still — a  friend. 
These  are  facts.  We  have  to  face  facts." 

She  paused,  then  went  on,  her  voice  now  clear  and 
firm: 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  can  not  see  what  a  many-sided 
nature  came  to  show  you  the  way — the  way  I  missed? 
But  I  wish  to  God  I  were  blind !  " 

179 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

Her  sudden  cry  of  protest  and  pain  rang  out  sharply. 
He  stretched  out  his  hands  to  her. 

"Brooke!    Brooke!" 

At  that  appeal  she  turned  from  him,  lest  he  should 
see  the  terror  in  her  face,  terror  that  she  might  weaken 
and  beg  him  wildly  to  stay  with  her,  to  give  her  of  the 
crumbs  of  his  affection. 

He  watched  her  as  if  fascinated.  She  did  not  look 
around.  She  seemed  to  have  turned  to  stone. 

He  waited. 

"  Is  it  good-by  ?  "  he  said.  "  Are  you  sure  ?  Are 
you  sure  ?  " 

She  bent  her  head,  but  no  sound  came  from  her  lips. 
He  raised  her  passive  hand  and  kissed  it,  then,  turning, 
went  slowly  from  the  room,  bowed,  haggard,  yet  with  the 
light  of  his  deliverance  beginning  to  dawn  in  his  face. 
She  had  opened  the  prison  door,  and  he  went  back  to  the 
glory  of  earth. 


180 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  breaking  of  her  engagement  brought  no  'deeper 
suffering  to  Brooke  —  seemed,  indeed,  after  the  painful 
scene  with  Robert,  to  be  a  thing  long  ago  accomplished. 
She  had  been  alone  for  weeks  before  she  compelled  him 
to  recognize  this  loneliness.  Now  that  the  meaningless 
symbols  of  their  bond  were  withdrawn  she  felt  but  little 
difference. 

When  a  day  or  two  had  passed  she  told  her  aunt  what 
she  had  done.  Angelica's  eyes  grew  dark  with  anger.  A 
bright  flush  came  into  her  thin  cheeks. 

"  He  forced  you  to  break  it  by  his  conduct.     He 


Brooke  put  a  hand  on  her  arm  imploringly. 

"  Don't  judge  him.     I  know  more  than  you." 

"  You  may  keep  me  from  speaking  out,  Brooke,  but 
you  can't  keep  me  from  thinking  certain  things." 

"  Well,  if  you'll  not  say  them  I'll  be  grateful,"  the 
girl  said  wearily. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"  Stay  here.  I  thought  of  going  home,  but  I'd  rather 
not  go  for  a  month  yet.  If  I  went  now,  mother  would 
get  the  brunt  of  it,  and  she's  in  no  condition  to  be  wor- 
ried. I'd  rather  worry  you,"  she  added  with  a  faint  smile. 

Angelica  bent  over  and  kissed  her  timidly.  Brooke 
had  a  remote  look  about  her  which  seemed  to  forbid 
sympathy. 

"  You  could  never  worry  me.  But  won't  she  hear 
through  others  ?  " 

181 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  I've  provided  for  that.  I  wrote  Robert,  asking  him 
to  tell  only  his  father  and  mother,  and  to  require  their 
secrecy  for  a  while.  He  understands  about  my  mother. 
He  wrote  in  reply  that  he  would  do  anything  I  asked." 

Angelica  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  It  is  certainly  considerate  of  him." 

"  Don't,  please,  don't." 

The  days  which  followed  seemed  of  interminable 
length  and  dreariness,  all  the  harder  to  bear  because  they 
followed,  for  the  most  part,  sleepless  nights ;  or  if  Brooke 
slept,  it  was  to  find'  her  sense  of  being  miserably  alone 
intensified  by  dreams.  In  these  she  wandered  among 
barren  rocks,  always  closing  up  the  thread  of  a  path  just 
when  she  thought  she  had  found  it.  Pallid  hills  threat- 
ened her  with  their  desolate  appearance,  or  she  stood  by 
the  side  of  a  great  water  and  could  find  no  boat  across 
it.  From  her  bewilderments  she  would  wake  with  a  cry, 
and  find  her  aunt  bending  over  her,  her  face  frightened, 
but  her  voice  reassuring.  One  recurrent  dream  roused 
special  terror  in  her,  though  it  was  nothing  more  than 
the  vision  of  a  sharp  cornice,  white  as  a  bone,  that  jutted 
out  into  space.  She  could  not  see  to  what  building  it 
was  joined  nor  at  what  awful  height  the  building  stood. 
That  mystery  kept  her  in  uneasiness.  She  was  afraid  to 
go  to  sleep  sometimes  lest  the  cornice  should  flash  out 
of  the  darkness. 

Her  days  were  better  than  her  nights,  because  she 
could  work.  She  performed  her  duties  on  the  newspaper 
with  an  intense  energy  wholly  out  of  proportion  with  the 
requirements  of  her  task.  Her  face,  thin  and  worn,  bore 
deep  marks  of  a  suffering  which  was  not  always  conscious. 
Bradley,  watching  her,  wondered  if  any  one  had  hurt 
her.  He  wanted  to  inquire  of  her  whether  there  was 

182 


THE     CITY 

anybody  or  anything  he  could  consign  to  that  nether 
region  which  seems  situated  just  beneath  the  newspaper 
buildings. 

Brooke  longed  to  go  home  to  her  mother,  but  refused 
to  go  with  a  load  of  care.  Every  day  she  thought  she 
should  feel  better;  every  day  she  hoped  for  some  abate- 
ment of  her  trial.  She  could  not  go  home  until  she  was 
at  least  outwardly  cheerful. 

She  was  working  at  the  office  one  morning  when  her 
aunt  called  her  on  the  telephone.  She  said  she  had 
received  an  important  message  from  Trenthampton,  and 
asked  Brooke  to  come  up-town  at  once. 

On  her  way  she  speculated  as  to  what  it  might  be, 
but  without  anxiety.  Her  own  trouble  swallowed  up 
apprehensions  that  might  otherwise  have  dominated  her. 

At  the  door  her  aunt  met  her. 

"  I  had  a  wire  from  Dr.  Gorton,"  she  said.  "  He 
wants  you  to  come  at  once.  Your  mother  is  ill." 

Brooke  looked  at  her  in  perplexity. 

"  It  can't  be — "  she  began. 

"  It  must  be  that ;  but  he  didn't  say." 

"  Let  me  see  the  telegram." 

She  read  twice  over  the  message  it  contained.  Had 
it  come  to  her  a  fortnight  earlier  it  would  have  seemed 
to  her  another  of  the  buffetings  of  fate.  Now  it  spelled 
deliverance,  for  the  time  at  least,  from  utter  blackness 
of  darkness.  Those  who  are  forced  to  think  of  others 
can  not  wholly  despair. 

She  began  her  packing  at  once,  Angelica  helping  her. 

"  You  will  never  come  back,"  she  said  tearfully.  "  I 
have  to  be  alone  again." 

"  No,  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  live  here  again.  I'm 
glad  to  go  home  to  my  mother." 

183 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  Dear  heart !  How  I  shall  miss  you !  "  She  paused 
a  moment,  and  regarded  Brooke  intently. 

"  Ursula  will  have  to  be  very  ill  not  to  see  how  ill 
you  look." 

A  shadow  passed  over  the  girl's  face. 

"  It's  what  I  dread." 

In  another  hour  she  had  started  on  her  journey.  Dr. 
Gorton  met  her  at  the  station.  He  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"  You  are  prepared,  then  ?  " 

She  nodded  an  affirmative.  As  they  drove  rapidly  up 
the  main  street  he  turned  from  time  to  time  and  stole  a 
glance  at  her.  The  anxiety  of  a  few  hours  could  scarcely 
make  such  ravages. 

"  Does  the  child  live  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  It  just  lives.    It  will  require  never-ceasing  care." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that." 

As  they  drew  near  the  house  she  turned  to  him  with 
a  half-frightened  expression. 

"How  do  I  look?" 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  know  ?  "  he  answered  harshly, 
out  of  his  anxiety  for  her. 

She  was  silent  for  a  minute,  then  she  said : 

"  Is — is  mother's  room  light  ?  " 

"Quite  light,  yes.    Child,  is  it  Robert?" 

She  struggled  for  composure. 

"  Yes,  Robert,"  she  whispered.  "  She  mustn't  know. 
You'll  help  me." 

He  nodded. 

Her  father,  trembling,  pale,  vague  as  usual,  even  in 
his  distress,  received  her  with  clinging,  imploring  hands, 
his  whole  manner  symbolizing  the  new  relation  in  which 
they  now  stood.  The  children  clung  to  her  skirts,  but 
with  hasty  kisses  she  drew  herself  from  their  arms  and, 

184 


THE    CITY 

saying  to  Dr.  Gorton,  "  In  just  five  minutes,"  she  hurried 
to  her  room. 

She  bathed  her  face,  rubbing  her  cheeks  to  bring 
some  color  to  them.  She  rearranged  her  hair.  Then, 
summoning  all  her  courage,  she  stepped  into  the  hall 
and  said: 

"  I  am  ready." 

"  You  look  better.    Keep  that  look." 

She  crossed  the  threshold,  and  feeble,  outstretched 
arms  received  her.  After  that  long  embrace  she  sat  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed,  answering  the  tender,  halting  voice, 
bringing  all  the  accumulated  moral  force  of  all  her  years 
to  gain  strength  to  meet  the  inevitable  question. 

"  And  the  children — Angelica's  cold — you'll  see " 

"  Yes,  dearest.    I'll  see  to  everything." 

"  Carlton  is  afraid  at  night  sometimes." 

"  I'll  take  him  in  my  bed." 

There  was  silence. 

"  I'm  glad  I  leave  you  with  Robert.  Is  all  well  with 
you?" 

The  moment  had  come. 

"  It  is  well  with  us/'  she  answered. 

No  tremor  broke  the  words.  With  a  look  tranquil 
and  reassuring  Brooke  smiled  into  her  mother's  closing 
eyes. 


18  185 


BOOK  III 
THE   DREAMER 

"But  I,  being  poor,  have  only  my  dreams; 
I  have  spread  my  dreams  under  your  feet ; 
Tread  softly  because  you  tread  on  my  dreams.'1 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

ONE  hot,  brilliant  morning,  toward  the  end  of  June, 
James  Erskine  was  seated  in  his  son's  office,  recounting 
the  details  of  a  new  business  venture  with  a  zest  and 
animation  which  made  his  face  for  the  moment  youthful. 
He  had  come  up  to  town  the  day  before  in  something 
of  the  spirit  of  the  boy  seeking  his  fortune.  The  long 
year — the  longest  he  had  ever  known — seemed  about  to 
yield  its  deadening  inactivity  to  zealous  enterprise.  His 
imagination,  like  silver  from  which  the  tarnish  has  been 
removed,  was  again  reflecting  all  the  light  and  move- 
ment about  him. 

"  You  see,"  he  wound  up,  "  the  best  part  of  this 
venture  is  that  it  will  give  me  work.  I'll  have  to  be  on 
the  jump  constantly  to  look  after  our  interests.  And, 
oh,  Robert,  you  don't  know  what  this  year  of  idleness 
has  been  to  bear.  It  was  hell,  as  I'm  afraid  your  poor 
mother  knows.  Now  I'll  be  going  to  and  from  the  city 
about  every  week.  We're  to  have — that  is,  if  the  deal 
goes  through — a  town  office  here,  another  in  Chicago. 
Why  don't  you  say  something,  boy?" 

Robert  rose  from  his  chair,  and,  going  to  the  fire- 
place, leaned  his  arm  upon  the  mantel.  There  was  about 
him  an  air  of  distinction,  of  that  refinement  which  a  great 
love  sometimes  produces,  as  if  it  swept  clear  of  all  super- 
fluities the  temple  of  its  habitation. 

"  It  seems  a  safe  enough  investment ;  so  safe  that  I'm 
afraid  you  won't  make  much  money." 

189 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  Not  for  two  or  three  years,  until  we  get  well  started. 
But  the  joy  of  working  again,  Robert !  " 

"  When  are  the  papers  to  be  signed  ?  " 

"  At  the  end  of  this  week.  I'm  going  slow.  I  want 
to  understand  everything,  down  to  the  last  detail,  before 
I  finally  commit  myself.  But  I  knew  both  my  prospective 
partners  twenty  years  ago.  They're  gentlemen  and  hon- 
est men.  None  of  us  wishes  to  make  a  sudden  fortune. 
We  believe  there's  room  in  this  country  for  stable  busi- 
nesses conducted  on  different  principles  than  the  Win- 
wood  grafts." 

A  flush  overspread  Robert's  face. 

"  Have  you — have  you  seen  Olivia  lately  ?  "  his  father 
asked. 

"  Last  week.     There  were  other  callers." 

His  father  hesitated. 

"  Do  you  know  what  is  being  said  in  Trenthampton  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  I  suppose  they  would  lie  rather  than 
say  nothing." 

"  Well,  the  news  has  got  abroad,  somehow,  that 
Brooke  broke  her  engagement  with  you  because — " 
He  paused,  looking  embarrassed. 

"Say  it  out,  father,"  Robert  said  quietly;  "because 
of  Olivia  Winwood.  Well,  it's  true.  But  Olivia  was  in 
no  way  to  blame." 

"You  mean ?" 

"  I  mean  that  I " 

He  went  no  further.  His  father  rose  and  walked 
toward  the  window,  stood  there  a  moment,  looking  out. 
At  last  he  turned  and  said: 

"Robert,  does  she ?" 

The  young  man  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  Signs 
of  strong  emotion  were  in  his  face. 

190 


THE    DREAMER 


"  If  it  were  true,"  he  said  at  last,  "  what  could  I  do? 
My  hands  are  tied.  A  man  who  has  nothing  can  not 
ask  a  woman  of  her  wealth  to  marry  him.  It  has  been 
done,  but  not  by  the  kind  of  creatures  I'd  wish  to  be 
classed  with." 

His  father  regarded  him  thoughtfully. 

"  I  always  looked  upon  your  engagement  with 
Brooke  as  premature." 

Robert  gave  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  I  mistook  the  nature  of  my  attachment."  He 
paused,  then  added,  "  I  did  her  a  terrible  wrong.  I  live 
always  in  the  shadow  of  it." 

"  Did  she  break  the  engagement,  or  you?  You  told 
us  so  little  in  your  letters." 

"  She  broke  it,  of  course.  I  would  never  have  broken 
it.  A  man  of  honor  doesn't  do  that  sort  of  thing." 

His  father  smiled. 

"  She  probably  saw  how  matters  stood.  Brooke  is 
no  fool." 

"  She's  the  noblest  woman  I  ever  met,"  Robert  said 
in  a  husky  voice,  "  and  I  couldn't  even  write  her  when 
her  mother  died.  It  would  have  been  like  mockery." 

"  Poor  Ursula !  She  was  sacrificed  to  Charles  Pey- 
ton. I  hope  he  knows  now  what  he  lost." 

"  How  are  they  pulling  along?  "  Robert  asked. 

"  Brooke's  a  host,  your  mother  tells  me.  She  sees 
her  constantly.  They  are  rearing  that  poor  baby  between 
them." 

"  I'm  glad  mother  sees  her,"  Robert  said  humbly. 
"  Mother  blames  me  because  she  does  not  under- 
stand. I,  too,  have  suffered.  I  never  for  an  instant 
forget." 

"  Your  mother  never  speaks  of  it ;  nor,  I  believe, 
191 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

does  Brooke.  A  woman's  silence  is  so  terrible.  I  sup- 
pose because  it  is  so  unusual,"  he  added,  smiling 
grimly. 

"  Is  Brooke — does  she  seem  well?  " 

"She  doesn't  look  well — no;  but  then  she  has  the 
care  of  all  those  children." 

Robert  bit  his  lip ;  his  face  for  a  moment  was  rigid. 

"  Poor  child !  I  must  go  now  to  a  patient,  father. 
He  is  my  first  patient  of  worldly  consequence,  a  young 
stock-broker.  I've  pulled  him  through  pneumonia. 
You  and  I  dine  together?  " 

Late  that  afternoon  Robert  was  on  his  way  to  the 
home  of  Henry  Winwood.  He  had  called  up  the  mag- 
nate on  the  telephone  asking  for  this  interview  in  which 
he  desired  to  obtain  an  assurance  of  the  reliability  of  a 
"  tip  "  proffered  him  by  his  patient. 

He  was  shown  into  the  library,  and  in  a  few  moments 
Henry  Winwood,  breathing  hard  and  stepping  heavily, 
entered  with  outstretched  hand. 

"  You're  a  stranger,  Doctor,  or  else  you  generally 
come  when  I'm  not  around.  Health  good?  You  ain't 
looking  like  a  fighting  cock,  but  then  I've  heard  you've 
had  trouble." 

"  My  engagement  was  broken,"  Robert  said. 

"  You  waited  too  long,"  Winwood  commented 
sagely.  "  You've  got  to  snap  women  up,  or  they'll 
give  you  the  slip;  though  Miss  Brooke  didn't  seem  that 
kind." 

"  Miss  Peyton  was  not  that  kind,"  Robert  answered 
with  dignified  coldness,  then,  changing  his  manner,  he 
added,  "  I've  come  to  ask  you  about  the  Bridgewater 
stock.  I  have  a  patient,  a  young  stock-broker,  who 
gave  me  a  *  tip '  thinking  that  I  had  some  acquaintance 

192 


THE    DREAMER 


with  the  Street.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  as  ignorant  as 
an  infant  of  everything  down  there.  I'd  like  your 
advice." 

Winwood  settled  himself  in  an  armchair  with  the 
contented,  somewhat  superior  look  of  a  man  whose  favor- 
ite subject  has  been  broached. 

"  Got  some  money  to  invest  ?  " 

Robert  looked  embarrassed. 

"  No,  but  I  have  a  friend  who  has  fifty  thousand  or 
so  that  he  would  like  to  place  to  advantage." 

Winwood  pursed  up  his  lips. 

"  Well,  it's  just  this  way.  Bridgewater  ain't  for 
novices.  Is  this  pin-money,  so  to  speak?  or  his  whole 
pile?" 

"  It's  all  his  capital." 

"  Well,  now  I  don't  know  quite  what  to  say.  I've 
stock  in  Bridgewater  myself,  but  then  you  see  I  can 
afford  to  take  chances;  and  between  you  and  me  the 
company's  running  close  to  the  wind.  They  may  come 
out  with  flying  colors,  and  if  they  do  it  will  be  about 
the  fattest  thing  in  the  market;  if  they  don't  there  won't 
even  be  a  funeral.  Dynamite  don't  leave  no  remains. 
I  wouldn't  touch  Bridgewater  myself  if  all  I  had  was  in 
the  old  stocking  under  the  brick  behind  the  stovepipe. 
Tell  your  friend  to  keep  his  little  all  snug  and  warm. 
The  West  is  a  chilly  place  sometimes." 

He  winked  facetiously  at  Robert,  whose  look  was 
somber  and  downcast. 

"  You  say  if  they  did  come  through,  it  would  be  rich 
pickings?" 

"  They'll  make  millionaires  of  their  stockholders,  but 
then  most  of  'em  are  that  anyway." 

Robert  rose. 

193 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  I  won't  detain  you  longer.  I  thank  you  for  speak- 
ing plainly." 

"  That's  my  custom,  or  else  I  don't  speak  at  all. 
Both  methods  are  good,  but  the  second  for  mine  as  a 
rule." 

As  Robert  was  taking  his  leave,  Olivia  came  to  the 
door  of  the  library.  She  looked  tall  and  pale  in  her 
white  gown  unrelieved  by  a  touch  of  color. 

"  Pardon  me,  father.  I  did  not  know  you  had  a 
visitor.  Ah,  it  is  you,  Dr.  Erskine !  " 

She  advanced  with  a  frank,  direct  look  and  gave  him 
her  hand. 

"  Father,  do  you  want  your  cup  of  tea?  Mother  will 
give  it  to  you  in  the  morning-room.  I  do  not  offer  you 
tea,"  she  said  to  Robert,  "  because  I  know  how  you  hate 
it.  Sit  down  and  talk  to  me." 

She  led  the  way  to  an  alcove,  its  windows  open  to 
the  warm  June  air.  Her  face  was  grave  and  thought- 
ful, touched  with  an  unfamiliar  humility.  He  wondered 
as  he  followed  her  if  any  power  on  earth  could  keep  the 
long-imprisoned  words  from  his  lips,  but  he  schooled 
himself  to  be  conventional,  remembering  that  scarcely  a 
month  had  elapsed  since  the  grave  had  closed  upon 
Brooke. 

"  You  are  staying  late  in  town,"  he  said. 

"  I  have  no  desire  to  go  away,"  she  answered. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  Trenthampton?  " 

"  You  know  that  I  am  not.     How  could  I  go  there!  " 

She  put  a  hand  before  her  eyes. 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated,  then  in  a  strained,  im- 
ploring voice,  he  said: 

"  Olivia,  do  you  understand?  Do  you  despise  me, 
Olivia?" 

194 


THE    DREAMER 


"  I  understand,"  she  said  in  a  voice  almost  in- 
audible. 

Her  hand  dropped  to  her  side,  then  she  looked  up 
at  him  as  a  woman  looks  at  her  conqueror. 

"  Robert,  we " 

Incredible  joy  lit  his  face. 

"It  is  love!" 

His  cry  was  the  flash  of  a  sword.  She  closed  her 
eyes  an  instant.  He  rose  and  stood  by  her,  close  by  her, 
looking  down  upon  her  with  wonder,  with  doubt,  with  a 
rapture  that  held  its  own  misery.  She  leaned  her  head 
back,  and  gazed  at  him  with  more  than  one  answer  in 
her  face. 

"  I  wanted  it  so,"  she  said  simply.  "  It  was  wrong, 
but  I  wanted  it." 

"  You  have  it.     Everything  is  yours.     All  I  can  give." 

"All  you  can  give,"  she  repeated;  then  she  added 
dreamily,  as  if  speaking  of  some  far-off  tragedy,  "  You 
did  her  wrong — that  child!" 

"  She  is  no  child.     She  is  a  noble  woman." 

"  You  did  her  more  wrong  then." 

"  Unknowingly." 

"  It  doesn't  make  her  suffering  less.  Robert, 
we " 

"  How  could  we  help  it?  " 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  eyelids  drooped  with  some 
weariness  of  incommunicable  thought.  A  mournful 
look  crept  into  his  face. 

"  Robert,  you'd  better  go  away." 

A  note  of  entreaty  in  her  voice  chilled  him. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

She  was  silent. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  repeated. 
195 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  Suppose  I  made  you  unhappy.  I  might,  you 
know." 

"  Yes,  I  know  that." 

She  looked  up  with  a  smile. 

"  You  don't  idealize  me  then  ?    That  is  good." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are,  Olivia,"  he  said.  "  I 
know  that  you  fill  my  life,  with  pain  or  bliss  little  mat- 
ters. You  fill  it." 

She  did  not  reply  at  once.  Her  hands,  usually  lan- 
guid and  relaxed,  played  restlessly  with  some  lace  on  her 
gown. 

"Robert?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  you  want  my — caring?  " 

"Do  I  want  life?" 

"  It  might  not  be  that." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  indifference. 

"  Whatever  it  is,  then." 

"  You  are  brave." 

"  I  am  yours." 

"Poor  Robert!" 

"  I  am  a  king." 

"  My  king  of  a  hundred  days." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  "  he  questioned  jealously. 

"  I  might  never  cease  to  care,  but  I  might  cease  to 
tell  you  that  I  did." 

"  To  be  told  once  crowns  me." 

"  And  you  will  risk — everything?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Even  possible  unhappiness?  " 

"  Ah,  yes." 

"  Because  I'm  sure  to  give  it,  whether  I  will  or  not," 
she  said  with  a  pleading  smile.  "  You  see  I  forget 

196 


that  they  are  not  all  actors.  I  hurt  them  without  know- 
ing it,  and  then  they  come  and  tell  me  and  perplex  me. 
I  don't  tell  them  when  I'm  hurt.  I  have  none  of  their 
privileges." 

She  closed  her  eyes.  Deep  shadows  were  about 
them.  In  that  instant  she  did  not  look  like  a  woman 
who  had  made  her  own  terms  with  life. 

He  could  not  utter  the  words  that  rose  to  his  lips. 
He  wished  for  a  new  tongue  that  he  might  never  repeat 
the  phrases  of  endearment  that  he  had  spoken  to  Brooke. 

"Will  you  speak  French  with  me?"  he  said. 

"  What  an  odd  question  at  this  time !  I  will  speak 
Latin  with  you  if  you  wish;  or  modern  Greek." 

"  Are  you  serious  ?    Do  you  know  these  tongues?  " 

"  Yes,  but  never  tell,"  she  answered  laughingly.  "  I 
might  lose  hearts." 

"  That  is  impossible." 

"  Don't  speak  that  way.  Don't  say  things  that  lovers 
say.  I  hate  the  exaggerated  tongue.  You  are  much 
too  privileged  now  to  use  it.  You  can  be  wholly  frank 
and  simple  with  me  now.  The  other  thing  belongs  to 
the  past." 

"  Into  the  future  then !  You  are  not  going  away  this 
summer?  You  will  be  here  through  July  at  least." 

"Do  you  wish  it?" 

"  How  can  you  ask!  " 

"  I  will  not  go  away — at  least  for  a  while.  We  can 
be  much  together,  Robert.  Do  you  know  a  summer- 
city?  Do  you  know  what  a  paradise  it  can  be?  You 
will  come  and  read  to  me.  You  will  tell  me  many  things. 
I  have  so  much  to  hear  you  say  and  now  I  have  time 
for  the  joy  of  listening." 

"  Three  words  tell  all." 

197 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  Never  say  them.     Interpret  them." 

"Olivia!" 

He  bent  to  kiss  her,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Some  day,  not  to-day.  Come  with  me  now.  I 
know  a  little  garden." 

She  took  his  hand  with  a  playfulness  that  he  had 
never  before  seen  in  her.  She  seemed  full  of  delight 
now  as  deep  as  her  sadness  had  been.  She  led  him 
down  the  stairs  and  through  the  halls  to  a  garden,  small, 
but  charming  and  secluded,  held  within  two  wings  of 
the  house,  with  high  walls  to  the  street. 

At  the  head  of  the  steps  which  went  down  into  its 
greenness  she  paused. 

"  Will  you  go  away,  Robert?    There's  yet  time." 

"Why  do  you  jest?" 

A  shadow  passed  over  her  face. 

"  I  do  not  jest,"  she  said. 


198 


CHAPTER   XXV 

ROBERT,  hurrying  to  keep  his  appointment  with  his 
father,  walked  through  a  transfigured  city.  The  great 
town,  usually  significant  of  little  but  the  press  of  busi- 
ness and  pleasure,  now  seemed  a  vast  stage  for  his  own 
splendid  enterprises.  His  mood,  though  ecstatic,  was 
practical.  Before  he  could  ask  Olivia  to  marry  him  he 
must  win  from  life  some  extraordinary  concessions.  He 
was  impatient  of  her  wealth,  though  not  of  the  demands 
that  it  made  upon  him.  If  he  wished  her  as  poor  as  a 
nun  of  some  ministering  order,  his  own  ambition  of  con- 
quest in  wide  fields  still  remained. 

His  father  was  waiting  at  the  office.  He  greeted 
Robert  with  boyish  gaiety. 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  like  this  old  town.  There's 
something  in  the  air  that  makes  you  over;  makes  you 
believe  in  yourself.  I  feared  I  was  such  a  rusty  key  that 
I  could  unlock  no  more  doors." 

"  Oh,  you'll  unlock  the  treasure-house,  yet,"  Robert 
answered.  "  No  key  is  thrown  away  here.  What  have 
you  been  up  to?" 

"  Never  mind  now.  I'll  tell  you  at  dinner.  Have 
you  had  a  Turkish  bath  ?  You  look  so  fresh  and  clear." 

"  No,  I'm  happy,  that's  all,  happy  in  spite  of  myself. 
Where  shall  we  dine — Mentoni's  ?  " 

"What  place  is  that?  I've  been  in  the  country  so 
long  that  I've  forgotten  the  haunts  here." 

199 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  A  nice  Italian  table  d'hote.  The  man's  wife  cooks 
and  she's  a  wonder.  You  can  go  into  the  kitchen  if  you 
want  to  order  anything  special,  and  tell  her  just  how 
you'd  like  it  done.  The  wines  are  good.  The  guests 
are  chiefly  foreigners  with  emotions  or  ideas — two 
vehicles  of  activity  not  used  in  public  by  the  average 
American." 

His  father  laughed. 

"Well,  you  are  on  a  high  horse!  I  suspect  you  are 
not  free  from  emotions  yourself  this  evening.  Let  us 
go  to  Mentoni's." 

Seated  at  a  little  round  table,  in  the  graveled  yard  of 
an  old-time  house,  under  the  shade  of  a  rubber  plant 
so  long  of  stalk  that  it  suggested  a  paucity  of  nether 
garments,  father  and  son  nibbled  their  radishes  and  lit- 
tle sour  olives,  waiting  for  the  mutual  confidences  which 
would  follow  the  opening  of  the  bottle  of  Chianti  they 
had  ordered.  James  Erskine  was  content  for  the  pres- 
ent to  watch  the  people  about  him,  mostly  young  men 
of  the  "  noble-brow  "  order,  with  a  sprinkling  of  women, 
some  bad  and  glad  of  it,  some  good  and  sorry  and  some 
good  by  choice,  others  content  in  that  mediocrity  which 
is  the  result  of  indifference  to  the  two  dividing  forces 
of  the  world. 

After  the  little  impenetrable  entree,  Robert  told  his 
story,  in  few  words  and  many  rapturous  silences.  When 
the  coffee  was  served,  and  he  had  drunk  two  cups,  he 
passed  to  the  practical  side  of  the  question. 

"  You  see,  father,  I  can't  ask  her  to  marry  me.  We 
both  have  a  sense  of  humor.  Why,  I  scarcely  make  my 
living  and  you  pay  my  office  rent." 

His  father,  drawing  the  first  puff  of  an  irreproachable 
cigar,  nodded  dreamily. 

200 


THE    DREAMER 


"  It  is  an  awkward  situation.  She  will  have  to  ask 
you  first,  as  queens  do." 

"  Si,  fetais  roi"  Robert  murmured  under  his  breath. 
Aloud  he  said: 

"  Even  that  wouldn't  help  matters.  I've  no  desire  to 
play  the  role  of  the  penniless  husband.  Religious  differ- 
ences are  as  nothing  to  financial  ones  in  their  power  to 
'  queer '  a  marriage.  If  I  were  founding  a  Platonic 
republic  I  would  require  equal  wealth  as  the  first  con- 
dition of  a  union." 

He  spoke  with  youthful  seriousness,  his  eyes  dark 
with  the  intensity  of  his  thought,  his  brow  furrowed. 

"  I'm  glad  you  feel  that  way  about  it.  I'd  despise 
you  if  you  jumped  at  the  chance." 

"  I  wish  she  had  nothing,"  he  said  with  a  sigh. 

His  father  smiled. 

"  That  is  not  according  to  your  theory." 

"  Oh,  well,  the  husband  should  have  the  most.  He 
is  the  head,  the  leader;  he's  nature's  choice." 

James  Erskine's  laugh  rang  out. 

"The  old  story!  I'm  glad  you're  not  ready  to  sur- 
render your  rights  even  in  the  face  of  a  million." 

"  No,  I'm  not  ready  to  surrender  them,"  Robert  said 
in  a  low  voice. 

There  was  a  long  silence.     Robert  broke  it. 

"  Father,"  he  said  with  a  note  of  hesitation  and 
apology  in  his  voice,  "  have  you  ever  looked  into  Bridge- 
water?  " 

"  You  mean  that  new  company,  that  new  Western 
enterprise?" 

"  Yes." 

"  No,  I  haven't.     I  got  one  of  their  circulars.    It 
seemed  too  much  of  a  speculation  for  my  pocket." 
14  201 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

The  words,  so  exactly  according  with  Winwood's 
advice,  had  a  depressing  effect  upon  Robert.  His 
father  saw  the  change  in  his  face. 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  My  little  stock-broker  put  me  on  to  something, 
that's  all." 

"  Is  he  so  sure  of  Bridgewater? " 

"  He  is.     Henry  Winwood  gave  me  different  advice." 

"  You  went  to  a  good  authority,"  Erskine  re- 
marked with  faint  satire  in  his  voice.  "  Just  what  did 
he  say?" 

Robert  recounted  the  interview.  A  look  of  impa- 
tience crept  into  his  father's  face,  which  gradually 
changed  to  one  of  resentment. 

"  The  money  in  the  toe  of  the  stocking  is  what  he 
calls  fifty  thousand,  eh?  These  millionaires  are  an  inso- 
lent lot.  Only  those  in  their  own  class  may  juggle  the 
golden  apples." 

"  You  see  in  the  morning  when  I  got  this  tip  I 
thought  at  once  of  you.  I  thought  here  might  be  a 
chance  to  increase  your  capital  quickly." 

His  father  smiled. 

"  Robert,  you're  very  much  in  love,"  he  said. 

A  flush  crept  up  Robert's  face. 

"  You  don't  know  how  I  long  to  be  more  on  the  level 
with  her,"  he  broke  out  in  passionate  apology.  "  And 
what's  fifty  thousand  in  this  town!  A  professional  man 
has  no  chance.  If  he  can  marry  by  the  time  he's  sixty, 
he's  lucky.  Oh,  I  know  it's  done.  They  marry  and 
choke  love  out  of  life  in  a  flat.  I  wouldn't  do  Brooke 
that  wrong,"  he  went  on,  all  unconscious  of  self-satire. 
"  It  would  hurt  me  if  my  wife  wanted  her  clothes  lined 
with  silk  and  had  to  use  cotton;  if  she  had  to  bump 

202 


THE    DREAMER 


her  head  against  a  roof  every  time  she  heard  an  opera; 
if  she  had  to  take  a  cable-car  to  make  her  calls." 

His  father  made  no  reply.  He  seemed  lost  in 
thought. 

"  Your  cigar  will  burn  your  fingers,"  Robert  said. 
"  Aren't  we  going  somewhere  this  evening?  How 
would  a  roof-garden  do?  " 

"  A  roof-garden  would  suit  me,"  his  father  said,  rous- 
ing himself  and  making  ready  to  depart.  On  their  way 
up-town  he  was  silent  and  preoccupied.  The  buoyancy 
was  gone  from  his  manner. 

Seated  at  another  table  in  a  bower  of  plants  and 
colored  lights,  they  watched  the  dancers  on  the  pretty 
little  stage,  and  listened  absent-mindedly  to  the  jokes 
and  songs.  Out  of  a  long  lapse  in  their  desultory  con- 
versation, James  Erskine  spoke. 

"  The  money  in  the  toe  of  the  stocking  is  not  for 
Bridgewater;  Robert,  what  if  I  should  put  this  capital 
into  it?  I  haven't  yet  signed  the  other  papers." 

Robert's  eager  look  contrasted  strangely  with  his 
slow,  cautious  words. 

"  It's  a  big  risk,  father.  It's  a  bigger  risk  than  bet- 
ting on  jacks  high  when  the  other  man  stood  pat." 

"  And  on  the  other  hand  it's  a  big  chance.  Henry 
Winwood's  being  in  it  guarantees  that.  He's  no 
fool." 

"  No,  he's  a  gambler.  Father,  are  you  thinking  se- 
riously of  it?  I  don't  want  anything  I  said  to  influence 
you.  I  can  only  carry  my  own  hide  to  the  tanner's." 

"  Of  course  I  would  do  nothing  in  a  hurry.  It's  a 
chance  if  they'll  let  me  in  anyway." 

"Oh!  they'll  take  you  in!"  He  paused  and 
laughed.  "  I  don't  mean  in  the  gold-brick  sense.  And 

203 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

if  it  did  turn  out  well,  you'd  be  wealthy — comparatively 
wealthy." 

Erskine  nodded. 

"  There  are  no  wealthy  men  since  Winwood  and  his 
ilk  set  the  pace — only  comparatively  wealthy.  I  am 
almost  ready  to  take  the  risk.  The  most  I  have  against 
it  is  that  it  will  give  me  nothing  to  do.  Waiting  eats 
your  heart  out." 

For  an  instant  Robert  had  an  impulse  to  say: 

"  Don't  consider  it.  Put  through  the  business  you 
came  to  town  for."  But  a  stronger  force  sealed  his  lips. 


204 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

OLIVIA  sat  in  the  cool,  golden  twilight  of  the  draw- 
ing-room, awaiting  the  coming  of  Paul  Mallory,  who, 
called  to  Europe  suddenly,  had  begged  for  a  good-by 
interview.  She  was  in  a  dreamy  state,  much  at  variance 
with  her  usual  clear-cut  mental  processes.  To  be  loved 
as  Robert  was  loving  her  with  silence  rather  than  speech, 
with  innumerable  rejections  of  the  halting  word,  the  im- 
perfect rapture  was  an  experience  new  to  her.  She  di- 
vined that  the  vocabulary  Brooke  had  heard  was  put 
aside  as  outworn. 

And  he  had  put  aside  his  French  also,  as  if  that  deli- 
cate, incisive,  marvelously  clear  language  was  no  vehicle 
for  the  strong  tumults  of  his  emotion,  passing  always 
into  mystery,  like  the  curve  of  the  soaring  arch.  Those 
upper  spaces  were  dim  with  incense,  with  aspiration 
unutterable. 

And  Olivia,  not  a  little  of  a  mystic  when  she  chose 
to  be,  yielded  herself  to  this  worship,  whose  perfect  re- 
straint seemed  at  times  to  her  sacramental.  This  love 
springing  from  the  strong,  fecund  earth  held  so  much  of 
heaven. 

"  I  may  need  to  remember  later,"  she  thought,  "  that 
I  was  once  in  paradise." 

She  rose  to  greet  Paul,  wishing  that  she  could  have 
for  once  a  visitor  who  did  not  lose  his  color  as  he  came 
into  her  presence.  The  succession  of  white  faces  and 
cold  hands  sometimes  irritated  her. 

205 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  This  was  most  good  of  you,"  he  said  humbly. 
"  May  I  tell  you  how  lovely  you  look?" 

"  You  were  always  original,  Paul,"  she  said  with 
a  smile.  "  How  are  you,  and  how  is  your  lady-mother? 
Does  she  go  with  you?" 

"  No,  she  goes  to  Newport." 

"  You  fashionable  people  have  such  a  knack  for  dis- 
covering new  places." 

Her  eyes  were  hostile.  In  that  instant  she,  who 
seldom  resented  anything  or  anybody,  because  of  her 
indifference,  felt  all  the  antagonisms  of  the  marital  rela- 
tion. Why  were  the  "  desirable  people  "  so  often  unin- 
teresting? 

"  You  would  go  there  too,"  he  said  with  a  touch  of 
resentment,  "  if  you  were " 

"  If  I  were  Mrs.  Mallory?  Probably  I  should.  Don't 
let  us  quarrel,  mon  ami,"  she  said  in  a  soothing  tone, 
"  on  the  eve  of  your  going." 

He  looked  at  her  gravely. 

"Olivia!" 

"  Yes,  St.  Paul." 

"  Olivia,  when  I  return  I  want  your  final  word." 

"  That  sounds  like  a  speech  at  the  end  of  the  second 
act  of  a  problem  play.  Paul,  don't  you  know  that  no 
word  of  mine  is  ever  final?  I  have  too  much  imagination 
for  that." 

"  Perhaps  I  am  lacking  in  imagination  since  I  will 
always  love  you,"  he  said  in  a  voice  too  serious  for 
satire. 

"  Yes,  frankly  you  are ;  or  else  you  have  too  much. 
A  sweet  reasonableness  would  have  discovered  my  limi- 
tations long  ago." 

He  was  silent.  The  hurt  look  in  his  face^  exasper- 
206 


THE     DREAMER 


atingly  free  from  lines,  led  her  to  turn  the  conversation 
into  other  channels.  For  a  half-hour  she  wooed  him 
back  to  the  heights  with  all  the  charm  of  which  she  was 
capable.  When  the  untroubled  adoration  was  again  in 
his  clear,  blue  eyes,  she  said: 

"  Paul,  I  must  send  you  away.  I  expect  a  friend  at 
five  who  is  always  savage  if  he  finds  any  one  else  here." 

Paul  rose,  his  face  blank  before  her  audacious  frank- 
ness. 

"  Olivia."  He  paused.  "  Olivia,  I  sometimes  think 
you're  a  coquette." 

Her  laughter  rang  out  bell-like. 

"  Why,  you  boy !  Of  course  I  am.  All  women  are 
more  or  less,  more  or — less.  And  you  would  find  us 
dull  enough  if  we  were  not." 

He  took  her  hand. 

"  If  a  woman  loves  a  man  she  doesn't  play  with  him." 

She  returned  his  serious  look. 

"  No,  if  she  loves  a  man  she  doesn't  play  with  him. 
He  tyrannizes  over  her.  Which  do  you  prefer,  the  com- 
edy or  the  tragedy?  " 

When  he  was  gone,  she  went  back  to  her  seat,  lean- 
ing her  cheek  against  the  chair.  A  feeling  of  depres- 
sion crept  over  her. 

"  The  great  Emperor  was  right,"  she  thought.  "  We 
are  leaves,  little  leaves  in  the  wind.  Come,  Robert,  come 
quickly.  When  you  are  with  me,  I  almost  believe  in 
myself." 

They  had  been  an  hour  together,  yet  little  had  been 
said.  When  he  was  with  her  he  was  not  conscious  that 
she  was  the  listener,  but  when  he  went  away  and  re- 
viewed in  his  mind  their  conversation  he  was  astonished 

207 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

to  find  that  it  had  been  carried  on  chiefly  by  himself. 
He  had  laid  his  heart  bare  to  her,  while  she  had  smiled 
upon  him  from  the  depths  of  her  silence.  If  it  were 
evening  she  always  asked  him  to  sit  where  the  light  fell 
upon  him,  but  she  herself  remained  in  the  shadow. 
True  to  their  bond  he  rarely  used  the  lover's  vocabulary, 
going  out  of  his  way  to  avoid  the  "  exaggerated  tongue." 

"  Were  you  at  your  clinic  to-day?  "  she  asked  him. 

"  Yes,  for  three  hours ;  mostly  children  and  babies. 
Nature  certainly  has  her  way  on  the  East  Side." 

"  I  never  could  understand  why  people  glorify  nature 
so.  She  is  utterly  indifferent  to  both  morals  and  man- 
ners. She  is  crude  and  rough  and  unfinished." 

Robert  laughed. 

"  She  is  no  flatterer.  I  prefer  art  to  nature  al- 
ways." 

"  Yes,  art  does  at  least  persuade  us  sometimes  that 
we  have  a  divine  destiny;  but  nature  constantly  reminds 
us  of  our  earthly  origin." 

"  I  have  brought  the  book  of  poems,"  Robert  said 
after  a  pause. 

"  Read  to  me." 

She  listened,  watching  him  with  an  intent  expression. 
After  a  time  she  leaned  forward  and  gently  took  the  book 
from  him. 

"  You  say  it  all  so  much  better.  Talk  to  me,  Rob- 
ert." 

"  I  can  only  speak  prose,"  he  answered  with  a  little 
smile.  "  What  I  can  not  say,  what  I  do  not  say,  are  your 
lyrics  and  your  madrigals." 

Silence  again  fell  between  them.  Both  were  in  that 
state  of  mind  which  can  give  utterance  only  to  what  is 
not  of  the  first  importance. 

208 


THE    DREAMER 


"  Is  your  father  still  in  town  ?  "  she  asked  at  last. 

"  He  left  yesterday." 

"  But  he  will  be  coming  in  often,  will  he  not  ?  Didn't 
you  tell  me  that  he  is  to  have  an  office  here?" 

"  That  scheme  didn't  go  through.  He — he — in- 
vested his  money  elsewhere." 

"  What  makes  you  look  so  worried?  " 

He  smiled. 

"  I  wasn't  aware  I  looked  worried.  Perhaps  I'm 
tired  to-day." 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  took  his. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  rising,  "  let  us  go  down  and  talk 
to  my  mother.  She  is  more  restful  than  I  am.  She 
doesn't  know  that  '  life  is  complex,'  "  she  added  with 
a  smile. 

Her  gesture,  her  words  comforted  Robert,  as  if  pro- 
phetic of  the  fact  that  he  was  to  be  one  of  this  family. 
He  longed  to  cry  out: 

"  Promise  me  that  you  will  wait  for  me  until  I  can 
ask  you  to  marry  me.  I  will  scale  any  height  to  reach 
you." 

But  the  words  died  on  his  lips.  After  all,  would  not 
such  an  appeal  imply  that  he  did  not  trust  her? 

On  a  porch  overlooking  the  garden  they  found  Mrs. 
Winwood,  amplified  by  her  white  summer  gown,  and 
quite  red  in  the  face  from  her  vigorous  fanning.  By  her 
side  on  a  little  table  was  a  pitcher  of  lemonade  and  some 
glasses. 

"  How  cool  you  young  folks  look,"  she  said  resent- 
fully. "  Dr.  Erskine,  don't  you  think  Olivia's  crazy  to 
stay  in  town,  when  we've  got  that  grand  place  at  Trent- 
hampton,  and  twelve  servants  there  enjoyin'  what's  right- 
fully ours?" 

209 


"  We  people  who  have  to  stay  in  town  are  very  for- 
tunate to  have  our  friends  here,"  he  answered. 

"  Are  you  very  busy,  Doctor?  It's  bad  weather  for 
babies.  Have  some  lemonade,  do.  I  made  it  with  my 
own  hands  for  your  father,  'Livy.  He  says  nobody  can 
make  it  like  I  can." 

"  Mother,  dear,  some  summer  I'm  going  to  take  a  lit- 
tle white-and-green  house  for  you  in  the  real  old-fash- 
ioned country;  the  kind  of  a  hous%  that  has  an  apple 
orchard  in  front  with  a  red  barn  on  the  hill  above  it,  get- 
ting all  the  view.  We'll  leave  the  servants  behind,  and 
you  and  I  will  cook  for  the  hired  men,  and  I  will  blow 
the  horn  at  noon  to  call  them  from  the  fields." 

Mrs.  Winwood  smiled  placidly. 

"  There  are  days  when  I  just  long  to  beat  up  an 
omelet  or  toss  a  cake  together.  I  can  do  as  well  as 
that  man  of  ours  in  the  kitchen,  and  he  gets  five 
thousand." 

Robert  listened  with  a  growing  sense  of  discomfort 
and  discouragement.  He  rose  to  take  his  leave.  As  he 
said  good-by  to  Olivia  she  drew  him  one  side. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Robert?  You  don't  seem  like 
yourself." 

He  hesitated. 

"  I'm  all  right ;  perhaps  stupid  from  working  in  the 
heat.  Forgive  me,  if  I  have  been  a  bore." 

"  No,  you  are  not  all  right.  Come  into  the  library 
a  moment." 

He  followed  her  into  the  cool,  brown  room.  There 
she  paused  and  took  both  his  hands. 

"Now  tell  me  what  it  is.  Don't  you  trust  me?  I 
am  trustworthy — in  some  things." 

He  smiled  wistfully. 

210 


THE    DREAMER 


"  Olivia,  will  you  put  on  your  plainest  dress  and  come 
away  with  me  to  that  white-and-green  house?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  You  would  be  bored  to  death  in  a  week,  and  so 
should  I.  Perhaps  I'd  be  bored  even  sooner,  for  I  could 
keep  you  good-natured  with  my  cooking,  a  gift  I've  in- 
herited from  my  mother.  But  we'd  be  yawning  in  each 
other's  faces  before  a  fortnight." 

"  But  what  of  this  disparity  between  us?  I  curse 
your  wealth  some  days." 

"  You  are  not  the  first  to  do  that,  as  I  once  told  you. 
Is  it  any  nobler,  Robert,  to  refuse  a  woman  because  she 
is  too  rich  than  to  refuse  her  because  she  is  too  poor?  " 

"  It's  not  a  question  of  nobility.  A  man  doesn't  wish 
the  roles  reversed." 

"  They  are  not  reversed.  Don't  let's  speak  of  it, 
think  of  it/'  she  said  caressingly.  "  This  is  our  sum- 
mer of  romance." 

"  But  your  parents  ?    What  will  they  think?  " 

She  smiled. 

"  They  never  question  me.  They've  asked  so  many 
since  I  was  a  child  that  were  never  answered  that  they 
have  become  tired  and  given  it  up." 

He  went  away  more  content.  After  all,  nothing 
could  be  announced  this  summer,  and  perhaps  by  fall 
Bridgewater  would  do  all  that  was  expected  of  it. 


211 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

BROOKE  meanwhile  was  going  through  one  of  those 
periods  of  readjustment  which  resemble  the  slow,  pain- 
ful knitting  together  of  broken  bones  and  lacerated 
sinews.  Though  her  heart  cried  out  for  her  mother, 
there  were  hours  when  she  could  almost  have  thanked 
heaven  for  the  burden  of  labor  imposed  upon  her  by 
this  untimely  death.  She  was  now  the  head  of  a  house- 
hold whose  cares  left  her  little  time  for  active  conscious- 
ness of  the  grief  which  otherwise  might  have  over- 
whelmed her.  The  tradition  of  her  father's  exemptness 
which  she  carried  on  faithfully  out  of  loyalty  to  her 
mother's  memory  was  of  itself  the  creator  of  many 
duties.  It  seemed  to  her  sometimes  that  she  divided  her 
day  between  him  and  the  youngest  member  of  the  house- 
hold, whose  fragile  life  owed  its  continuance  to  her  un- 
remitting care. 

So  labor  helped  to  eject  from  her  soul  its  grief  and 
bitterness,  though  not  without  hours  when  these  reigned 
supreme.  She  found  herself  hating  Olivia,  despising 
Robert,  despising  herself  most  of  all  for  her  inability 
to  keep  his  love.  Then  the  thought  of  their  friendship 
of  the  old  days  would  calm  her  passion  and  soften  her 
grief.  That  memory  was  at  least  whole  and  golden, 
raised  forever  above  the  shocks  of  time. 

With  the  past  she  often  linked  the  future.  Robert 
would  go  to  his  own,  to  a  brilliant  life  in  the  metropolis 
with  a  brilliant  woman.  Brooke  saw  as  a  shadow  in 
this  light  her  own  existence,  that  of  a  mother  to  mother- 

212 


THE    DREAMER 


less  children  through  long,  monotonous  years ;  and  when 
the  brood  had  gone  forth,  to  a  silent  gray  life  alone  with 
her  father.  There  were  moments  when  she  could  not 
look  toward  the  vista  of  that  flat,  straight  road  without 
a  shudder  as  of  death  passing  over  her. 

She  found  her  greatest  solace  in  the  visits  of  Rob- 
ert's mother,  who  offered  her  neither  sympathy  nor  ad- 
vice, but  that  kind  of  understanding  which  takes  much 
for  granted. 

With  Dr.  Gorton  she  was  less  at  her  ease,  because 
she  was  constantly  in  dread  lest  his  blunt  kindness 
should  probe  her  wounds.  She  had  given  him  no  ex- 
planation of  the  breaking  of  her  engagement. 

She  sat  one  afternoon  in  the  nursery  reading  a  letter 
from  Hugh  Bradley,  a  curious,  jumbled  missive,  full  of 
his  grim  humor,  and  touched  here  and  there  with  senti- 
ment as  with  a  clear  shaft  of  light  from  the  man's  true 
personality.  His  chivalrous  devotion  to  her  was  height- 
ened by  the  loss  of  her  mother.  He  expressed  it  vica- 
riously by  sundry  little  attentions  to  Miss  Angelica 
Peyton. 

Brooke  put  the  letter  down  with  a  sigh.  Here  was 
a  strong  nature  in  whom  she  could  place  perfect  confi- 
dence, yet  her  heart  yearned  for  the  nature  that  was  not 
strong,  but  pitifully  human  and  unstable.  Though  good- 
ness is  one  of  the  bulwarks  of  love,  it  can  not  of  itself 
create  it,  and  the  laws  of  attraction  go  deeper  than  the 
profoundest  system  of  morals. 

She  leaned  over  the  child  in  her  lap  to  distract  her 
thoughts  by  contemplation  of  the  tiny  face,  as  mysterious 
by  its  blankness  as  the  face  of  age  by  its  wrinkles. 
She  was  sorry  that  this  baby  was  a  girl. 

The  day  had  been  a  difficult  one.  Her  father's  head- 
213 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

ache  requiring  quiet,  only  a  series  of  skilful  diplomacies 
had  kept  the  children  at  a  safe  distance  from  his  study. 
At  the  midday  dinner  the  meat  had  come  up  scorched, 
and  Charles  Peyton,  already  nervous  from  a  long  morn- 
ing of  unbroken  application,  had  insisted  on  cook  being 
sent  for.  After  the  meal  Brooke  had  received  her  notice. 

The  nurse  came  in  now  to  relieve  her  of  the  charge 
of  the  baby.  She  was  an  honest,  fresh-faced  country 
girl,  devoted  to  her  young  mistress,  whom  she  watched 
over  in  a  motherly  way.  As  she  took  the  child  from 
Brooke's  arms  she  urged  her  to  go  out  for  "  a  breath 
of  air." 

Brooke's  nod  was  of  thanks  rather  than  assent.  She 
dreaded  the  house  less  than  other  places  because  it  had 
fewer  memories  of  her  companionship  with  Robert. 
They  had  spent  that  beautiful  summer  chiefly  out-of- 
doors. 

But  she  went  into  the  garden,  and  wandered  about 
aimlessly,  her  black  dress  a  somber  contrast  to  the  riot- 
ous colors  of  the  flowers.  She  was  too  tired,  too  dull 
even  to  think,  much  less  to  fix  her  mind  on  the  book 
she  had  brought  with  her.  She  wondered  if  she  would 
ever  care  to  read  or  study  again.  What  was  the  use? 
Was  she  not  already  overburdened  with  life's  bitter 
wisdom  ? 

She  sat  down  on  a  bench  under  a  tree,  but  inaction 
was  dreadful  to  her,  and  she  began  again  her  restless 
walk.  When  she  was  not  occupied  her  imagination 
sometimes  took  fantastic  excursions  which  troubled  her. 
Ugly  shapes  dodged  about  among  the  rose-bushes  with 
a  strange  cackle  of  laughter.  Queer  eyes  were  watching 
her  from  the  interstices  of  the  foliage.  The  universe 
seemed  to  be  capable  of  bringing  forth  nothing  more 

214 


THE    DREAMER 


lovely  than  a  brood  of  imps  whose  mockery  even  the 
face  of  Christ  Himself  could  not  quiet.  Sometimes 
when  these  specters  grew  too  palpable  she  would  cry 
out  to  her  mother  as  if  she  were  a  child  again,  afraid 
of  the  darkness. 

She  saw  Dr.  Gorton  entering  the  garden  and  went 
down  the  path  to  meet  him.  He  came  almost  every  day. 
Brooke  thought  it  was  to  see  the  baby,  but  it  was  con- 
cern for  her  which  brought  him,  for  he  discerned  in  her 
certain  signs  which  not  only  indicated  that  she  had  re- 
ceived a  great  shock,  but  were  of  sinister  significance 
regarding  the  future.  He  did  not  fear  for  her  mind,  but 
he  dreaded  a  condition  of  the  spirit  so  hopeless  that  the 
health  of  the  body  would  eventually  be  impaired  by  it. 

He  wished  that  he  could  induce  her  to  break  her 
silence  concerning  the  ordeal  through  which  she  had 
passed,  believing  that  what  is  unspoken  has  power  to 
destroy  as  well  as  to  make  alive. 

To-day  he  made  no  attempt  at  strategy,  but  went 
directly  to  the  point.  After  greeting  her  he  said: 

"  Brooke,  I  am  your  godfather  and  Robert's.  Do 
you  wish  me  to  condemn  him  as  strongly  as  I  have  to 
do  these  days?  I  show  him  no  mercy." 

She  stood  for  a  moment  silent,  a  blank,  dark  look 
in  her  face.  Then  she  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  don't  blame  him.  He  had  to  be  hers.  Where 
people  love  they  love,  and  that's  an  end  of  it." 

Dr.  Gorton  made  no  answer,  for  a  moment  wonder- 
ing just  what  words  he  could  use  to  divert  Brooke's  mind 
from  Robert's  faithlessness.  At  last  he  said: 

"  Heaven  grant  that  Olivia  really  cares  for  him. 
Are  you  strong  enough,  great  enough  to  breathe  that 
prayer?  " 

215 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

Brooke  bowed  her  head. 

"  Not  yet,"  she  said.     "  I  hope  to  be." 

"  It  is  the  only  prayer  left  you,  if  you  are  so  sure  of 
his  destiny.  Think  of  the  future  now,  not  of  the  past. 
There  are  many  dreams  of  life,"  he  went  on,  as  if  speak- 
ing to  himself,  "  love,  joy,  riches,  fame,  but  the  dream 
of  God  outlasts  them  all.  I  am  old  and  I  know." 

She  smiled  bitterly. 

"  Will  one  wake  from  that,  too? " 

"  No ;  for  that  dream  is  the  one  reality.  How  is  your 
baby  to-day?" 

"  Nurse  has  her.  She's  wonderful  for  such  a  mite 
of  a  baby." 

He  left  her,  and  went  on  into  the  house.  When  he 
came  out  again,  she  went  up  to  him  quickly. 

"Godfather!" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  won't  act  differently  toward  Robert  because 
of  this?" 

He  smiled. 

"  My  dear,  when  you  are  past  eighty  you  do  not 
change  toward  people  no  matter  what  they  do." 

When  he  was  gone  she  sat  down  to  think  over  the 
things  he  had  said  to  her.  It  was  hard  doctrine. 

So  absorbed  was  she  in  her  thoughts  that  she  did 
not  see  the  approach  of  Jimmy,  who  since  his  mother's 
death  had  been  more  subdued  in  spirits  than  Brooke 
had  ever  known  him.  He  came  and  sat  by  her  now, 
and  looked  up  in  her  face  with  a  puzzled  expression. 
Brooke  smiled  and  patted  the  grubby  hand  on  her 
knee. 

"  Can't  you  tell  a  fellow?  "  he  burst  out  at  last. 

"Tell  you  what?" 

216 


THE    DREAMER 


"  Tisn't  just  mamma,"  he  said.  "  I  know.  I've 
watched  you,  dear." 

"  Some  day  I  will  tell  you,"  she  answered,  "  because 
you  and  I  are  chums." 

"  You  bet  we  are,"  he  said,  putting  his  freckled 
cheek  against  her  arm.  The  boyish  phrase  comforted 
her.  For  a  moment  the  world  about  her  took  on  its 
old,  sweet,  natural  aspect. 


15  217 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

"  DID  you  come  straight  from  the  office  ?  " 

"  No,  from  the  Street."  I 

"  How  often  you  go  down  there !  Are  you  looking 
after  an  investment?" 

"Yes,  I  am;  rather  some  one  else's  investment.  I 
am  waiting  for  a  good  many  things  these  days,  among 
others  a  letter  from  you." 

"  What  could  I  say  in  a  letter  to  you  when  I  see  you 
every  day?  " 

"  Then  why  do  you  want  my  letters?  " 

"  Because  you  put  into  them  what  I  do  not  myself 
possess.  You  don't  realize,  I  think,  what  my  nature  is. 
I  haven't  a  Gothic  bone  in  my  body.  I'm  pure  pagan. 
My  philosophy  is  of  Epicurus." 

"  But  I  am  a  man,  not  a  philosopher,"  he  answered. 
"  You  rouse  me  to  fever-heat  sometimes  while  you  re- 
main calm,  inscrutable,  half-amused." 

She  laughed. 

"  If  I  were  always  on  the  surface,  you  would  soon 
tire  of  me.  I  sometimes  think,"  she  added  musingly, 
"  that  that  is  why  God  draws  everything  to  Himself — 
because  He  loves  and  remains  hidden." 

"  Yet  you  say  there  are  no  cathedrals  in  your  nature." 

"  I  don't  enter  them  often ;  I'm  too  fond  of  sunshine. 
How  lovely  those  colors  are!  " 

They  were  sitting  upon  a  bench  in  the  great  park  of 
the  city.  Westward  a  sunset  of  latest  August  flamed 
above  the  tall  buildings,  a  suggestion  of  autumn  in  its 

218 


THE    DREAMER 


red  and  yellow  tints.  In  the  opposite  direction  the  light 
was  reflected  upon  a  dome  of  copper,  whose  burnished 
red  stood  out  strongly  against  the  faded  blue  of  the 
eastern  sky. 

"  Isn't  a  summer-city  beautiful,  Robert? "  she  said, 
after  a  moment's  interval  of  silence. 

"I  didn't  know  it  could  be  so  beautiful,"  he  said; 
"  the  light-effects  are  as  sumptuous  as  in  Venice.  Did 
you  ever  notice  the  cross-streets  at  this  hour,  when  the 
sun's  going  down,  and  the  dust  makes  a  haze  of  the  in- 
tensest  gold,  sometimes  red  gold?  Then  comes  a  rich, 
blue  twilight,  and  out  of  it  the  high  buildings  rise  as 
lightly  as  if  they  had  no  foundations.  Dawn's  even  more 
splendid." 

"  That  I  seldom  see  in  summer.  Do  you  get  up  so 
early?" 

"  I've  prowled  about  a  good  deal  this  month  between 
four  and  six  in  the  morning." 

"You  don't  sleep  well?" 

"  I  have  '  white  nights.'  I  can't  shut  out  the  heaven 
the  days  are.  When  will  we  quarrel?  We  have  not 
quarreled  yet." 

"  In  paradise  it  is  not  possible  to  quarrel." 

"  Paradise  is  a  summer-city,"  he  answered. 

"  Where  do  we  dine  to-night  ?  My  father  gives  you 
permission  to  take  me  anywhere." 

"  Suppose  we  dine  high  in  the  air,  on  the  roof  of 
some  hotel?  " 

"  Very  well.     Let  us  walk  down  through  the  park." 

They  went  very  slowly,  both  being  in  that  mood 
which  garners  every  moment,  as  having  its  own  precious 
quality.  But  their  reasons  for  this  harvesting  were  di- 
verse. With  Robert  it  was  the  sense  of  the  briefness  of 

219 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

the  summer  which  when  ended  would  mean  the  beginning 
of  a  situation  no  longer  secret,  and  of  the  great  demands 
it  implied.  To  Olivia,  on  the  other  hand,  the  flight  of 
time  meant  always  a  certain  weariness,  a  keen  conscious- 
ness of  the  futility  of  all  things.  She  knew  the  mood 
of  those  of  whom  it  is  written: 

"  They  shall  seek  some  face  elusive, 
And  some  land  they  never  find." 

So  with  deliberate  intent  they  held  back  the  mo- 
ments, but  the  long,  slow  walk  brought  them  at  last  to 
the  place  they  had  chosen.  There,  high  above  the 
street,  an  artificial  garden  had  been  created.  From  the 
little  embowered  table  they  could  see  north  and  south 
over  the  city,  its  outlines  dimmed  by  a  haze  of  heat  and 
dust. 

As  Olivia  seated  herself  she  bowed  to  a  party  of 
people  at  a  near-by  table.  The  men  returned  her  greet- 
ing cordially,  the  two  women  with  an  air  of  well-bred 
coldness.  One  of  them  put  up  a  lorgnette  and  followed 
the  slight  movement  of  her  head  with  a  stare  of  great 
simplicity  and  directness.  Olivia  looked  across  at  Rob- 
ert with  a  smile. 

"  The  mother  is  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Mallory's,  and  she 
is  shocked." 

"  Why  is  she  shocked?  "  Robert  questioned. 

"  Because  I  am  doing  a  very  unconventional  thing. 
Mrs.  Mallory  will  probably  add  this  to  the  list  of  my 
crimes.  She  hates  me,  you  know,  because  Paul  wants 
to  marry  me." 

Robert's  look  was  troubled. 

"  Do  you  care  that  these  people  are  shocked?  "  he 
said.  "  Do  they  count?  " 

220 


THE    DREAMER 


"  I  care  neither  for  men,  women,  nor  chaperons, 
Robert.  I  know  what  I  am  doing  and  why  I  want  to 
do  it." 

"  Ah,  but  are  you  sure  you  could  dispense  with  them 
as  audience?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  You  are  keen,  too  keen  sometimes,  since  you  dis- 
cover my  follies.  You  are  quite  right.  I  want  to  act 
as  I  please  to  an  audience  of  my  own  selection.  •  I  wish 
that  orchestra  would  stop  playing.  The  music  recalls 
something  I  would  like  to  forget." 

"  You  know  how  much  I  have  to  forget,"  Robert 
said  with  a  somber  expression. 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  Brooke,"  she  said  gently,  her 
eyes  softening  as  if  she  spoke  of  the  dead. 

"  Yes,  Brooke.  It  is  terrible  to  hurt  a  soul  of  whom 
you  are  so  unworthy." 

"  The  lower  always  hurts  the  higher,  as  I've  ob- 
served," Olivia  said  musingly.  "  Pardon  me,  but  she 
was — higher." 

"  Oh,  I  know/'  he  assented. 

"  I  am  nearer  your  plane.  If  you  ever  hurt  me  you 
will  not  at  least  have  that  remorse." 

She  leaned  her  chin  on  her  hands  and  gazed  away 
from  him  over  the  housetops  to  the  bounds  where  night 
began. 

"  I  couldn't  hurt  you,  Olivia.  No  one  ever  has  hurt 
you.  No  one  ever  will." 

"  That  is  a  dangerous  doctrine — for  me.  How  clearly 
you  are  showing  my  critics,  our  neighbors,  that  you  are 
in  love.  Don't  look  at  me  that  way." 

"  They  will  know  it  sooner  or  later,"  Robert  said  with 
a  smile. 

221 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  They  will  not  be  interested,"  she  answered  dryly. 

His  heart  sank,  for  he  knew  what  her  words  implied. 
Unless  she  married  one  of  their  class,  her  doings  would 
be  of  no  importance  to  them. 

"  Well,  what  does  their  interest  amount  to?"  he  an- 
swered with  a  touch  of  impatience. 

"  Much,  if  you  are  going  their  way." 

"  But  you  are  going  mine,"  he  said  decisively. 

She  made  no  answer,  but  for  the  rest  of  the  evening 
she  exerted  herself  to  the  utmost  to  charm  and  divert 
him,  until  she  saw  that  he  was  living  again  wholly  in 
the  present. 

On  his  return  to  his  rooms  that  night  he  found  a 
letter  from  his  father,  which,  like  several  that  had  pre- 
ceded it,  was  full  of  his  nervous  anxiety  over  the  fluc- 
tuations of  Bridgewater.  For  the  last  month  Robert 
himself  had  been  more  uneasy  concerning  the  result  of 
the  venture  than  he  would  admit  to  his  parents.  The 
sense  of  his  own  responsibility  in  the  matter  lay  heavily 
upon  him,  and  in  his  depressed  moments  he  wished 
with  all  his  heart  that  he  had  never  repeated  to  his  father 
his  conversation  with  Winwood,  whose  scornful  meta- 
phor of  "  the  old  stocking  "  had  been  of  such  weight  in 
the  decision.  The  scales  of  life  are  turned  more  often 
by  trifles  than  by  great  events. 

Another  element  in  his  anxiety  was  the  attitude  of 
his  former  patient,  Darrell,  the  stock-broker,  who  seemed 
to  regret  having  given  Robert  "  a  tip  "  which  he  had  not 
entirely  verified. 

"  You  see  if  I  hadn't  been  on  my  back,"  he  said  on 
one  occasion  when  Robert  had  come  to  make  inquiries 
of  him,  "  I'd  have  known  the  ins  and  outs  better.  I 
thought  I  was  giving  you  a  sure  thing,  and  perhaps  I 

222 


THE    DREAMER 


was.  Stock  dreams  go  by  contraries  oftener  than  you'd 
think." 

When  he  had  read  the  letter  Robert  sank  back  in  his 
chair,  his  brow  furrowed,  his  lips  compressed.  Suppose 
the  worst  happened?  Suppose  Bridgewater  collapsed? 
What  would  become  of  his  parents?  The  house  in 
Trenthampton  would  have  to  be  sold.  What  would  his 
father  do? 

And  he  himself?  What  could  he  do  if  his  fathers 
support  were  withdrawn  from  him?  And  how  would 
poverty  of  this  complete  and  thoroughgoing  kind  affect 
his  relations  with  Olivia? 

Yet  might  he  not  trust  her  to  rise  with  him  above 
considerations  of  fortune;  trust  her  to  wait,  until  he 
could  hew  his  way  to  her? 

A  brighter  look  came  into  his  face.  He  thought  of 
the  little  entresol  in  Paris  that  for  their  amusement  they 
had  furnished  together  that  afternoon,  a  place  all  ormolu 
and  flowered  brocade,  like  a  scene  out  of  Balzac  when 
he  writes  of  duchesses.  Well!  dreamers  had  sometimes 
the  best  of  it. 


223 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

THE  summer  evening  in  Bruges  was  heavy  with  a 
brooding  and  delicious  warmth,  which  seemed  to  hold 
the  town  in  an  even  deeper  stillness  than  its  enfolding 
ancient  years.  Paul  Mallory  was  not  as  a  rule  suscep- 
tible to  the  sentiment  of  places,  but  as  he  stepped  from 
the  door  of  a  pension,  where  he  had  been  calling  upon 
his  old  French  tutor,  he  felt  about  him,  like  palpable 
presences,  the  ghosts  of  dead  centuries,  the  babble  of 
voices  long  hushed  beneath  the  pavements  of  the  high, 
quaint  churches.  Before  him  a  little  bridge  spanned  a 
black  canal  of  waters  so  sluggish  that  they  seemed  mo- 
tionless. Bordering  this  canal  were  the  garden-walls 
of  the  red-roofed  Flemish  houses;  enclosing,  it  would 
seem,  existences  even  deeper  and  dreamier  than  those  in 
the  palaces  of  fairyland  where  knight  and  page,  king  and 
vassal  have  been  put  to  sleep  by  enchantment.  A  stone's 
throw  from  the  bridge  a  great  tree  in  full  white  blos- 
som, though  it  was  late  August,  overhung  the  still  water, 
a  patch  of  clear,  high  light  in  the  warm  gloom. 

Paul,  leaning  on  the  parapet  of  the  bridge,  thought 
as  usual  of  Olivia,  longed  for  her  to  be  with  him  that 
they  might  wander  together  through  the  grass-grown 
streets,  together  listen  to  the  sweet,  interminable  call 
of  the  bells,  together  explore  the  white-walled,  black- 
raftered  churches,  where  homely  Flemish  faces  looked 
down  from  above  the  altars,  stiff  Holy  Families  in  colors 
gay  as  tulips.  He  had  said  many  prayers  for  her  among 
the  kneeling  townsfolk. 

224 


THE    DREAMER 


He  took  from  his  pocket  a  letter  which  he  had  just 
received  from  his  mother,  and  began  again  to  read  it, 
haunted  by  the  sense  that  it  was  somehow  her  valedictory 
to  many  things  which  had  made  their  companionship 
precious. 

"  I  do  not  blame  you,"  she  wrote,  "  for  what  now 
seems  to  be  your  destiny.  If  sons  waited  for  their 
mothers'  approval  to  marry,  the  world  would  be  depopu- 
lated. We  become  idealists  then,  if  never  before. 

"  I  am  anxious  now  that  she  shall  marry  you,  though 
my  estimate  of  her  is  but  slightly  changed.  I  admit  her 
charm,  her  unclassified  beauty,  her  altogether  singular 
virtues  in  one  newly  rich.  I  admit  all  this,  but  I  still 
believe  that  her  selfishness  is  colossal,  that  she  could 
never  make  any  man  happy  because  she  could  never 
for  an  instant  forget  her  own  claims,  her  love  of  power. 

"  Believing  this,  I  can  yet  write  that  I  should  be 
glad  if  she  accepted  you.  I  know  that  your  emotions 
were  never  scattered  and  were  always  tenacious.  When 
you  write  me  that  you  will  love  her  always,  I  believe  you. 
"  I  know  that  you  are  unhappy.  You  don't  say  so, 
but  I  feel  it  under  all  your  bravado  of  interest  in  your 
business  and  pleasure  over  there.  Come  home  and  win 
her  if  you  can.  I  promise  to  be  gracious,  to  act  as  if 
she  were  my  choice." 

"  You're  a  brick,"  he  said,  as  he  folded  the  letter, 
"  for  you  dislike  Olivia  from  the  bottom  of  your  soul, 
and  you  know  it,  mother!  You're  a  great  lady.  You're 
the  real  thing." 

But  how  to  win  Olivia!  Not  one  line  had  he  had 
from  her,  though  he  had  written  her  twice  every  week 
during  the  summer.  Paul  was  not  brilliant,  but  he 
believed  in  the  value  of  persistence. 

225 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

Sighing,  he  took  his  way  to  the  Beguinage,  a  square 
whose  silent  green  spaces,  crossed  only  by  holy  women, 
seemed  the  friendliest  place  in  Bruges.  There  he  sought 
a  stone  bench  near  an  archway  where  a  gaunt  Christ 
hung,  and  gave  himself  up  to  planning  his  future,  a 
future  through  which  Olivia  accompanied  him  step  by 
step. 


226 


CHAPTER   XXX 

OLIVIA  was  sitting  at  her  desk  rereading  a  number 
of  Robert's  letters.  They  had  nearly  all  been  written,  as 
the  hour  carefully  recorded  showed,  after  midnight  of 
those  evenings  he  had  spent  with  her,  forming  a  kind  of 
noctuary.  Their  deep  poetical  quality,  unconscious  for 
the  most  part,  made  her  hesitate  to  destroy  them. 

She  had  feared  to  tire  of  this  worship,  which  she  had 
desired  more  deeply  than  she  had  ever  desired  anything; 
but  to  her  surprise — for  she  had  little  faith  in  emotion 
— it  had  grown  so  dear  to  her  that  she  was  almost  ready 
to  commit  herself  to  it  openly,  giving  up,  as  an  offering 
of  betrothal  to  Robert,  her  metropolitan  ambitions.  She 
knew  that  as  an  unmarried  woman  she  could  take  a  place 
far  higher  than  as  the  wife,  however  wealthy,  of  an 
unknown  physician  from  the  provinces.  The  husband 
creates  the  wife's  social  position,  and  not  the  wife  the 
husband's.  Olivia  realized  that  the  mere  fact  of  Robert's 
being  a  gentleman  by  birth  would  not  secure  his  admit- 
tance to  a  world  which  demands  that  ancestors  be  rich 
before  they  are  gentle,  and  resents  the  inverse  process; 
or  to  that  other  world  represented  by  the  Mallorys,  which 
bases  its  claim  on  several  generations,  both  of  conspicuous 
wealth  and  of  breeding. 

Her  lip  curled  in  contempt  of  these  circles,  yet  she 
knew  that  in  her  heart  she  desired  their  recognition  and 
their  homage ;  as  necessary  to  her,  indeed,  as  a  sense  of 
divine  grace  to  the  conscience  of  a  saint. 

227 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

On  the  other  hand  was  the  appeal  of  genuine  in- 
terest and  affection.  Why  she  loved  Robert  she  did 
not  know,  nor  did  she  greatly  care.  She  had  known 
men  more  brilliant,  more  cosmopolitan,  perhaps  of 
sterner  fiber  of  character,  but  they  had  left  her  heart 
untouched.  Robert's  spirit  mated  hers.  With  him  she 
was  content. 

She  had  held  herself  firmly  in  check  during  the  sum- 
mer, fearful  of  being  carried  where  reason  no  longer  held 
the  reins.  That  feeling  should  be  made  a  basis  for  mar- 
riage she  was  not  at  all  sure.  She  was  afraid  of  killing 
the  thing  she  loved. 

Yet  the  desire  of  uniting  her  life  to  his  was  becom- 
ing perilously  sweet.  What  simplicity  there  was  in  her 
nature  yearned  for  better  things  than  her  oppressive 
riches  offered  her.  The  little  entresol  in  Paris,  with  its 
gay  furniture,  its  abundance  of  mirrors  and  flowers,  was 
more  than  a  fanciful  dream  born  of  the  idleness  of  a 
summer  afternoon.  What  an  ideal  setting  for  a  honey- 
moon !  Sometimes  her  thoughts  went  on  to  pretty  details 
of  that  isolation.  On  feast-days  they  would  go  to  St. 
Cloud  or  to  Versailles,  as  do  the  pairs  of  humble  lovers 
in  French  stories.  Then,  after  a  few  months,  home  again 
to  the  finest  country  in  the  world  to  enjoy  all  the  old- 
fashioned  rural  pleasures  open  to  good  Americans  who 
have  neither  poverty  nor  riches. 

Ah,  what  a  dream !  She  pressed  her  lips  to  a  letter 
in  which  he  had  told  her  sternly  and  with  authority  that 
she  would  have  to  share  his  fortunes,  great  or  small. 
That  letter  was  more  precious  than  the  others.  She  put 
it  aside  as  privileged  by  its  message  to  escape  the  general 
holocaust.  In  the  fireplace  a  wood  fire  was  burning — 
for  it  was  a  bleak  day  in  late  September — and  one  by 

228 


THE     DREAMER 


one  she  gave  the  letters  to  the  flames,  watching  them  burn 
until  the  last  little  ghost  of  gray  ashes  had  soared  up 
the  chimney. 

Toward  the  end  of  her  task  Robert  was  announced. 
As  he  entered  the  room  she  rose  from  the  hearth-rug 
which  she  had  shared  with  Dr.  Faustus,  and  came  for- 
ward to  meet  him  with  hands  outstretched. 

"  I've  been  burning  all  your  beautiful  thoughts,  Rob- 
ert. They  are  now  floating  above  the  housetops.  Per- 
haps some  are  seeking  the  river  and  will  go  out  to  the 
great  ocean." 

"  I'm  glad  you  cremated  them.  People  who  keep 
letters  are  not  the  kind  of  people  you  want  to  send 
letters  to." 

"Tired,  Robert?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Cold?" 

"  No." 

"Bothered?" 

"  Perhaps." 

"  Come  and  sit  here  between  me  and  Dr.  Faustus,  who 
is  in  one  of  his  wisest  moods.  He  has  been  telling  me 
that  even  the  luxuries  with  which  I  surround  him  are  as 
nothing  to  what  he  enjoyed  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile  two 
thousand  years  ago.  He  will  explain  to  you  the  difference 
between  white  and  black  magic  if  you  ask  him  courteously 
and  without  rumpling  his  fur." 

Robert  laughed. 

"  I'm  sure  there's  only  black  magic  under  that  ebony 
coat.  You  shameless  old  wizard,  are  you  always 
asleep?  " 

He  seated  himself  on  a  low  chair,  and  drew  the  cat 
on  his  knees. 

229 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  You  look  as  if  you  had  been  working  too  hard, 
Robert." 

"  I've  been  thinking  too  hard,  perhaps.  I  am  a  ways 
and  means  committee  of  one." 

"  You  are  like  all  the  others.  You  don't  know  the 
meaning  of  repose.  Why  struggle  ?  " 

"  Why,  indeed  ?  That  is  a  strange  question  for  you 
to  ask." 

"  Work,  but  don't  struggle,"  she  said  gently. 

"  You  must  realize  that  our  engagement  has  made  me 
ambitious." 

"  Are  we  engaged,  Robert  ?  " 

A  flash  of  anger  was  in  his  eyes  as  he  said : 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  asking  such  a  question  ? 
Have  you  been  playing  with  me  ?  " 

"  No.  You  know  that  I  have  not,"  she  answered 
gravely. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  mean  then  ?  " 

"  More  things  than  I  can  explain  to  you.  Don't  ask 
me  to  explain  them.  Trust  me  a  little." 

"  I  do  trust  you." 

"  You  don't  act  as  if  you  did." 

"  I'd  like  to  take  you  to-night  and  go  away  with  you 
into  the  wilderness." 

"  Robert,  I  tell  you  frankly  that  that  is  an  impossible 
dream.  I  am  not  made  for  plain  living  and  high  think- 
ing, and  I  have  the  sense  to  know  it.  I  require  a  certain 
genial  temperature  for  the  flowering  of  my  virtues." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you.  You  have  a  large  enough 
nature  to  do  anything." 

"  No,  as  I  told  you  once  before,  nobility,  like  pov- 
erty, would  not  agree  with  me.  I'd  grow  ill-tempered 
and  nervous.  The  saints  are  always  nervous,  you  know." 

230 


THE    DREAMER 


"  Don't  jest." 

"  I  never  was  further  from  jesting." 

"  But  what  of  our  future,  then  ?  " 

She  was  silent. 

"  Olivia,  you  will  have  to  come  to  me.  I  can't  come 
to  you." 

She  made  no  reply. 

There  was  a  sound  of  approaching  footsteps.  Henry 
Winwood  paused  at  the  door  and  looked  in. 

"  Good  evening,  Doctor.  These  sudden  changes 
make  good  pneumonia  weather.  Olivia,  tell  James  he 
must  keep  that  tom-cat  of  yours  from  wandering  all  over 
the  house.  I  nearly  broke  my  neck  falling  over  him  on 
the  stairs  this  morning,  the  black  rascal!  " 

"  Don't  abuse  Faustus.  He'll  bring  you  bad  luck  if 
you  do." 

Winwood  laughed. 

"  I  guess  I  swore  too  hard  at  him  this  morning,  then. 
Bridgewater's  busted.  You'll  have  to  do  without  your 
fall  hat,  'Livy." 

He  went  on  his  way  whistling.  Robert  stood  motion- 
less, his  face  devoid  of  color,  his  lips  blue,  his  eyes  full 
of  sudden  and,  to  her,  inexplicable  misery. 

"  Robert,  what  is  it?    Are  you  ill?" 

He  did  not  answer  at  once,  but  stared  at  her  with 
an  intensity  of  expression  that  frightened  her. 

"Robert!    What  is  it?    Speak  to  me!" 

"  My  father  is  ruined,  that  is  all,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  Ruined  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  He  put  all  his  money — all  he  had  left — in  the 
Bridgewater  stock ;  and  I  let  him  do  it,  knowing " 

She  stood  silent,  gazing  at  him.  Then  a  look  came 
into  her  face  such  as  he  had  never  seen  there. 

231 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"You  did  it — for  me?"  she  said  softly. 

He  bent  his  head. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  the  strange,  beautiful  light 
still  on  her  face,  then  she  slowly  crossed  the  room,  and 
for  the  first  time  raised  her  lips  to  his. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

"  YOUR  kindness  to  me  hurts  me.  If  you'd  blame  me, 
reproach  me,  I  could  bear  it  better ! " 

James  Erskine,  hollow-eyed,  thin,  and  pale,  as  if  he 
had  spent  his  summer  underground,  made  a  gesture  of 
protest. 

"  I  was  as  much  to  blame  as  you.  I  allowed  my 
resentment  of  Winwood  to  influence  me  unduly.  But 
I  suppose,"  he  added  with  faint  irony,  "that  if  fortune 
had  come  my  way  I'd  have  seen  the  finger  of  Providence 
in  the  whole  matter." 

The  two  men  were  seated  in  the  library  of  the  Trent- 
hampton  home,  before  a  hearth  on  which  no  fire  burned. 
The  sense  of  dreariness  produced  by  the  chilly  air  of 
the  room  was  further  increased  by  the  continual  drip, 
drip  of  a  fine,  soaking  rain,  which  seemed  to  turn  even 
the  chrysanthemums  in  the  garden  as  brown  as  the 
fallen  leaves. 

"  What  do  you  think  you  can  do,  father  ?  "  Robert 
said  after  a  long  pause,  that  had  deepened  the  apathetic 
look  on  James  Erskine's  face. 

"  God  knows !  "  he  answered.  "  The  house  will  have 
to  be  sold.  We  will  go  somewhere  in  the  country,  your 
mother  and  I,  and  board  cheaply  until  I  can  look  around 
a  little." 

"  Poor  mother !  "  Robert  murmured. 

"  I've  always  had  a  standing  chance  for  a  position  in 
the  Winwood  works.  They'd  be  glad  to  pay  me  a  small 
W  233 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

salary  for  my  large  experience  in  their  line,  but  I  think 
I'd  rather  starve  than  go  to  them." 

"  No,  not  that  if  you  can  help  it,"  Robert  said,  turn- 
ing his  eyes  away  that  he  might  not  see  the  nervous 
twitching  of  his  father's  hands. 

"What  about  Olivia?  You've  not  spoken  of  her 
since  you  came." 

Robert's  face  reflected  for  an  instant  a  mirage  of 
heavenly  beauty. 

"  We  are  engaged.  She  gave  me  her  final  word  on 
the  night  I  heard  that  Bridgewater — she  was  marvelous !  " 

His  father's  dull  eyes  brightened. 

"  Is  she  announcing  it  ?  " 

"  No.  It  can't  be  announced  at  this  crisis.  I  am 
held  between  joy  and  despair.  I  can't,  I  won't  marry 
her  till  I've  worked  my  way  to  some  success  by  my  own 
legitimate  efforts.  It  seems  now  like  asking  her  to  wait 
forever.  Why,  I  don't  know  where  my  office  rent's 
coming  from.  The  lease  expires  the  middle  of  October." 

"  We  might  apply  to  Dr.  Gorton  for  a  loan,"  James 
Erskine  said  wearily,  "  if  you  think  you  could  keep  up 
with  the  interest." 

Robert  shook  his  head. 

"  No ;  I'll  manage  somehow.  I  pay  monthly,  not 
quarterly,  thank  heaven !  I  have  bills  out,  but  people 
have  been  away,  you  know." 

"  Does — Olivia  know  these  things  ?  " 

"  I  tell  her  very  little.  It  is  difficult  for  a  wealthy 
woman,  even  with  the  best  intentions,  to  understand 
poverty.  Besides,  it's  too  much  like  a  beggar  showing 
his  sores." 

"  Well,  I'm  thankful  you  have  her  to  work  for.  It 
is  the  one  ray  of  light  in  this  trouble." 

234 


THE    DREAMER 


"  Her  love  keeps  me  sane,"  Robert  said  in  a  low 
voice.  "  If  I  had  ruined  you  for  a  will-of-the-wisp  of 
my  fancy  I  could  not  bear  it." 

"Have  you  told  your  mother  of  your  engagement?  " 

"  Not  yet.  I  find  it  difficult  to  open  the  subject. 
Mother  doesn't  like  Olivia." 

"  She'll  be  fair,  no  matter  what  she  feels.  She  has 
been  such  a  bulwark  since  this  loss.  Not  a  word  of  re- 
proach! I  sometimes  think  she  has  a  man's  tempera- 
ment. She  takes  so  much  for  granted." 

They  sat  a  few  moments  in  a  silence  broken  only  by 
the  insistent  dripping  of  the  rain.  Occasionally  a  gust 
of  wind  rose  from  the  ground  to  sway  the  yellow  leaves 
as  if  in  preparation  for  their  cradling,  and  then  to  die 
away  in  the  distance.  A  longing  arose  in  Robert,  as  it 
sometimes  arises  out  of  the  strongest  love,  a  longing  to 
leave  the  intricate  labyrinths  that  he  had  been  threading 
and  to  follow  a  wandering  wind,  forever  care-free,  young, 
and  untroubled.  The  gray  realms  of  thought  lying  like 
a  high  plateau  under  the  stars  allure  those  whose  beloved 
have  brought  the  touch  of  fever  to  their  souls. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? "  James  Erskine  asked  as 
his  son  rose. 

"  I  am  restless.  I  think  I  shall  go  to  The  Towers 
and  get  a  book  I  promised  Olivia  I  would  bring  her." 

Erskine  went  to  a  drawer  and  took  from  it  a 
cigar-box. 

"  There  are  only  two  left  of  a  brand  I  won't  be  able 
to  buy  again  for  some  time.  Shall  we  smoke  them  now, 
or  after  dinner  ?  " 

"  Let  us  wait  until  after  dinner,"  Robert  said ;  "  per- 
haps I  can  make  you  forget  then  the  trouble  I  have 
caused  you." 

235 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

His  father  smiled  faintly. 

"  When  you  are  as  tired  as  I  am,  you  resent  nothing.'7 


The  Towers  rose  majestically  through  the  thick  gray 
atmosphere.  The  lawns,  still  green  as  emerald,  were 
bare  of  leaves,  as  if  the  little  gay,  fluttering  things  were 
seized  upon  and  carried  off  like  poachers  by  vigilant 
gardeners. 

The  butler  who  admitted  Robert  bowed  obsequiously. 
It  was  evident  that  the  servants  were  not  unaware  of 
the  favor  in  which  he  stood  with  their  young  mistress. 
The  man  conducted  him  to  the  library,  and,  after  light- 
ing a  fire  on  the  hearth,  went  noiselessly  away. 

Robert  found  the  book,  then  he  seated  himself  in  the 
depths  of  a  high  carved  chair.  The  desire  to  wander 
with  the  wind  had  left  him  since  he  had  entered  this 
house,  so  full  of  memories  of  Olivia  that  he  half  expected 
to  encounter  her  somewhere  in  the  twilight.  Her  voice 
called  his  name  softly.  Her  dark  eyes  watched  him. 
Through  those  wide  halls  he  heard  the  rustle  of  her  dress. 

He  leaned  his  head  against  the  tall  chair-back,  look- 
ing up  at  the  ceiling,  with  its  two  great  circular  frescos, 
one  representing  the  last  conversation  of  Socrates,  the 
other,  Paul  upon  Mars  Hill. 

How  would  it  seem  one  day  to  be  master  of  this 
place?  How  would  it  seem— consummate  miracle! — to 
be  master  of  her? 


236 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

"  BUT  I  thought  you  were  not  returning  before  No- 
vember," Olivia  said,  a  touch  of  impatience  in  her  voice. 

"  I  could  stay  away  no  longer.  I  left  the  business 
uncompleted.  Remember,  I  have  had  not  one  line  from 
you.  Europe  was  hell." 

"  Paul,  remember  you  are  a  churchman,  and  the 
great-grandson  of  a  bishop — or  was  it  an  archbishop? 
You  should  have  known  that  I  never  write  letters  in 
summer-time." 

Paul  Mallory  rose  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down 
the  long  drawing-room.  He  had  the  feverish  look  of  a 
man  consumed  by  something  which  has  passed  thor- 
oughly beyond  his  control,  yet  which  can  find  no  outlet. 
His  face  had  lost  its  boyishness.  Love  knows  no  middle 
age.  It  has  either  the  youth  of  Apollo  or  the  centuries 
of  the  Sphinx. 

"  Where  were  you  this  summer,  if  I  may  ask  ?  " 

"  Here." 

"All  summer?" 

"  All  summer." 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  that?  " 

"  Are  you  my  master  that  I  should  answer  any  ques- 
tion you  choose  to  ask  ?  " 

Olivia's  voice  was  hard,  her  face  as  expressionless  as 
she  knew  how  to  make  it. 

Mallory's  frame  shook  with  that  anger  of  love  which 
is  only  terrible  to  the  person  who  feels  it. 

"  No,  by  God !  I'm  not  your  master ;  I'm  your  dog 
to  be  kicked,  and,  like  a  dog,  I  come  crawling  back." 

237 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  Dogs  are  nobler  than  men  sometimes,"  Olivia  said 
with  a  little  smile.  "  Calm  yourself,  Paul.  You  know 
angry  people  only  amuse  me." 

"  Everything  amuses  you,"  he  said  bitterly.  "  Yon 
should  have  been  a  Roman  woman  in  the  days  of 
Nero.  You  would  have  called  '  to  the  lions ! '  between 
a  discussion  of  the  weather  and  of  the  new  styles 
of  togas." 

"  I  thought  only  the  senators  wore  togas,"  Olivia 
said  musingly.  "  However,  if  you  say  so,  it  must  be 
true.  You  are  a  Mallory." 

"  My  name  is  at  least  unsullied,"  Paul  said.  "  It  is 
the  best  I  have  to  give  you." 

Olivia  was  silent. 

He  paused  before  her  chair. 

"  My  dearest,  why  is  it  you  rouse  me  sometimes  to 
say  ungentlemanly  things  in  your  presence?  I  don't 
often  get  angry,  but  when  I  do  the  fiend  has  full  pos- 
session." 

"  Why  do  you  blame  me  for  your  lack  of  self-con- 
trol ?  "  Olivia  asked. 

He  made  no  answer. 

"  You  are  only  a  child,  Paul.  Why  should  I  marry 
a  child?" 

"  No,  I  am  not  a  child,"  he  said  with  dignity.  "  I 
am  a  man,  too  much  of  a  man,  I  hope,  to  go  on  in  this 
uncertainty.  I  will  take  my  leave  now,  and  I  will  re- 
turn in  three  days  for  your  final  word.  If  you  say  '  no  ' 
to  me  then  I  will  go  away  forever." 

His  voice  was  quiet,  his  eyes  calm  and  steady.  Olivia 
realized  that  he  meant  what  he  said. 

"  Would  you  care  to  marry  me  knowing  I  did  not 
love  you?"  she  asked. 

238 


THE    DREAMER 


"  God  help  me,  yes !  " 

"  Men  are  such  strange  beings,"  she  murmured,  as 
if  to  herself.  "  Paul,  you  can  come  back  in  three  days 
for  your  answer.  Be  prepared,  however,  to  take  your 
final  leave  of  me." 

A  spasm  of  pain  crossed  his  face.  He  lingered  a 
moment,  then  he  bowed,  raising  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said.  "  If  prayer  can  help,  you  will 
not  say  '  no.'  " 

When  he  was  gone  she  went  to  her  mother's  room. 
Mrs.  Winwood,  somewhat  paled  and  faded  by  her  sum- 
mer in  town,  sat  in  a  bay-window  knitting  a  little  silk 
baby-sock. 

"  I  wish  this  was  for  your  baby,  Olivia,"  she  said. 

Olivia  laughed. 

"  What  an  unnatural  mother  you  are  to  wish  such 
a  thing  for  your  daughter." 

Mrs.  Winwood  dropped  her  needles  in  her  lap. 

"  Wouldn't  you  really  like  to  have  a  child  of  your 
own,  'Livy  ?  " 

"  No,  I  wouldn't.  Why  should  I  transmit  my  faults 
to  another  generation?  I  suppose  if  I  married  into  one 
of  these  big  city  families  I'd  have  to,  though.  There 
must  always  be  an  heir  for  the  name  and  the  fortune. 
Don't  look  frightened,  mother.  I'm  not  going  to  sell 
my  soul.  I  think  I  will  marry  the  man  I  love." 

She  sank  upon  the  floor  and  laid  her  head  upon  her 
mother's  knee.  Mrs.  Winwood,  thoroughly  astonished, 
touched  Olivia's  hair  timidly. 

"Don't  you  feel  well,  my  dear?" 

"  Quite  well,  mother.  Your  voice  sounds  as  if  you1 
were  afraid  of  me.  Was  I  ever  cross  to  you  ?  " 

"  Never !  Only — only  I  was  always  afraid  of  you, 
239 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

even  when  you  were  a  tiny  baby.  What  black  eyes  you 
had,  and  what  a  temper ! " 

"  I  was  a  changeling,  dear.  Your  own  blond-haired 
baby-girl,  with  the  blue  eyes,  is  somewhere  now  in  fairy- 
land. Wouldn't  you  like  to  have  her  back?"  she  said, 
stroking  her  mother's  hand. 

"  No;  I  guess  I'd  rather  have  you." 

Silence  fell  between  them.  Her  mother  broke  it 
at  last: 

"  Have  you  seen  Robert  lately  ?  " 

"  He  comes  this  afternoon." 

"  I  like  him/'  Mrs.  Winwood  said,  picking  up  her 
needles  again. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Olivia  softly. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  wear  to-night  ?  " 

"  To-night  ?    Have  we  anything  for  to-night  ?  " 

"  The  little  musicale  at  Mrs.  Webb's.  You  haven't 
forgotten  you're  to  play !  She's  opening  the  season  early, 
and  I  declare  I  don't  feel  up  to  a  long  winter  of  it." 

"  You  can  run  up  to  The  Towers  for  a  while. 
You'll  have  to  go  to-night.  Mrs.  Webb  is  in  the  Knick- 
erbocker set." 


240 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

MRS.  WEBB'S  house  was  in  a  cross-street  which 
opened  from  the  lower  end  of  the  Avenue.  It  was  a 
small,  old-fashioned  dwelling,  furnished  chiefly — as  her 
friends  said — with  musical  instruments.  But  an  invita- 
tion to  one  of  her  musicales  was  a  passport  to  the  inner 
circles  of  society. 

Olivia  and  her  mother  had  received  invitations,  partly 
because  Olivia  played  the  piano  as  well  as  if  she  were 
a  public  performer,  but  chiefly  because  her  engagement 
with  Paul  Mallory  was  looked  upon  as  merely  a  matter 
of  time.  His  future  wife  must  be  treated  with  con- 
sideration. 

A  half-hour  before  the  time  set  for  the  musicale, 
Mrs.  Webb,  her  husband,  and  two  women  friends  who 
had  dined  with  them  were  gathered  about  the  piano, 
where  they  took  turns  in  entertaining  each  other  with 
their  latest  compositions. 

Mrs.  Webb,  a  strong-featured  little  brunette,  had  just 
finished  playing  a  madrigal  when  Mrs.  Leidy,  a  young, 
very  fashionable  matron,  picked  up  a  program  and 
remarked : 

"  I  see,  Polly,  you  have  Miss  Winwood  down  for 
the  Appassionata.  She  ought  to  be  able  to  do  justice 
to  it." 

'  I  understand  that  she  has  no  heart,"  said  Webb, 
who  was  sorting  some  music. 

"Just  because  Paul  Mallory  hasn't  found  it?"  re- 
marked Miss  French,  who  was  in  her  sixth  season. 

241 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

Mrs.  Leidy  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders. 

"  My  dear,  I  don't  believe  he  ever  asked  her  to 
marry  him." 

"  But  he  was  wild  about  her  last  winter." 

"  Men  are  often  wild  about  women  whom  they  don't 
want  to  marry." 

"  Well,  if  she's  not  going  to  marry  Paul  Mallory,  I 
think  I'll  cross  her  name  from  my  list,"  Mrs.  Webb  said 
frankly.  "  I  could  accept  her  alone,  for  she  has  the  air 
of  a  duchess,  but  she  insists  on  forcing  her  impossible 
mother  down  people's  throats." 

"  Good  girl !  "  said  Webb,  looking  up. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  very  well,  Courtney,  but  when  one's 
rooms  are  small  one  can't  know  certain  people." 

He  laughed. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Win  wood  inclined  to  embonpoint  ?  " 

Miss  French  put  a  thin  arm  about  Mrs.  Leidy's  waist 
and  drew  her  to  a  window-seat,  where  they  sat,  a  blur 
of  soft  fluffiness  in  the  dim  light. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  Olivia  Winwood  was 
in  town  during  the  entire  summer.  She  was  seen  by  four 
or  five  people  I  know  dining  in  public  at  different  times 
with  the  same  man." 

"What  man?" 

"  Heaven  only  can  tell !  One  of  her  former  friends, 
I  suppose,  whom  she  can't  afford  to  know  during  the 
season." 

Mrs.  Leidy  smiled. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  had  better  be  done  quickly.  I 
think  I  will  ignore  Miss  Winwood  this  evening.  She 
may  look  like  a  duchess,  but  people  of  the  stamp  of  her 
family  are  becoming  altogether  too  sure  of  their  position. 
A  wholesome  snub  won't  harm  them." 

242 


THE    DREAMER 


"  You  do  those  things  so  beautifully,"  Miss  French 
said,  looking  at  her  friend  with  admiration.  "  I  hope  I 
may  be  present  at  the  execution." 

"  You  can  assist  if  you  will." 

Miss  French  laughed. 

"  With  all  my  heart !  I  have  a  grudge  against  Miss 
Winwood  for  outshining  me  last  winter  at  the  Dudley 
musicale." 

"  She  certainly  plays  well,"  said  Mrs.  Leidy,  who 
was  noted  for  giving  the  devil  his  due. 

"What  mischief  are  you  two  plotting?"  asked  Mrs. 
Webb,  coming  up  to  them  at  that  moment. 

"  We  are  going  to  cut  Miss  Winwood.  We  have 
decided  to  resist  the  inroads  of  the  proletariat,"  Mrs. 
Leidy  said  sweetly. 

"  Well,  I  beg  of  you  not  to  carry  out  your  charitable 
intentions  until  after  she  has  played.  Those  perfectly 
cool  people  always  have  horrible  tempers.  She  might 
leave  me  in  the  lurch." 

"  She'd  be  more  likely  to  play  with  the  force  of  a 
whirlwind,"  Mrs.  Leidy  replied ;  "  the  Appassionata  calls 
for  strong  feeling  of  some  kind." 

Mrs.  Webb  laughed. 

"  It  doesn't  call  for  temper.  Courtney,  will  you 
kindly  go  down  and  see  to  that  furnace  yourself  ?  These 
rooms  will  be  unendurable  by  ten." 

She  sat  down  at  the  piano  again  and  ran  her  lithe 
fingers  over  the  keys,  finally  wandering  into  a  folk-song. 
Under  cover  of  the  music,  Mrs.  Leidy  said : 

"  I'd  like  to  oblige  Polly,  but  if  the  psychological 
moment  comes  before  the  sonata,  the  sonata  will  have 
to  go." 

Miss  French  pressed  her  arm  sympathetically.     She 

243 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

promised  to  help.  She  had  always  the  courage  to  do 
what  Mrs.  Leidy  did,  but  she  herself  lacked  the  power 
of  initiative. 

The  rooms  filled  up  quickly  as  the  hour  named  ap- 
proached, for  Mrs.  Webb's  entertainments  always  began 
with  the  promptness  of  a  public  performance.  Olivia 
and  her  mother  were  among  the  latest  comers.  The  girl 
looked  well  in  a  gown  of  dull  red  chiffon,  cut  very  low, 
and  without  sleeves.  She  wore  a  quaint  necklace  of 
gold,  but  no  other  ornaments. 

After  greeting  her  hostess  she  slipped  quietly  into 
the  nearest  seat,  but  Mrs.  Winwood,  feeling  the  impor- 
tance of  the  occasion  as  the  first  event  of  the  season, 
looked  around  for  familiar  faces,  with  the  intention  of 
making  herself  agreeable  in  the  few  moments  which  were 
left  for  conversation. 

Olivia,  with  some  misgivings,  saw  her  mother  enter 
the  chattering  throng,  but  she  made  no  attempt  to  follow 
her.  She  always  prepared  herself  for  playing  by  a  period 
of  silence. 

People  began  to  take  their  places,  and,  watching  the 
audience,  which  at  Mrs.  Webb's  musicales  was  always 
worth  watching,  she  forgot  her  mother,  nor  was  she 
aware  when  Mrs.  Winwood  took  her  place  by  her  side. 

But  during  the  first  number,  a  violin  obligate,  her 
attention  was  diverted  by  a  very  perceptible  sniffle. 
Turning  her  head  to  locate  the  direction  of  the  sound, 
she  saw  her  mother  sitting  rigid,  her  face  scarlet,  her 
lips  compressed,  and  two  big  tears  rolling  down  her 
cheeks. 

Olivia  looked  at  her  in  wonder,  but  she  checked  her 
sympathetic  impulse  to  whisper  "Are  you  ill?"  or  to 
lay  her  hand  on  her  mother's,  because  she  was  fully 

244 


THE    DREAMER 


aware  that  kindness  might  bring  forth  a  flood  of  hys- 
terical tears.  Instead  she  frowned  and  put  a  warning 
finger  to  her  lips.  Mrs.  Win  wood's  ample  bosom  heaved 
convulsively,  but  she  made  a  desperate  effort  at  self- 
control,  clutching  her  handkerchief  with  her  plump  hands 
and  tapping  the  floor  with  her  foot  to  relieve  her  ner- 
vousness. When  the  number  was  over,  Olivia  whispered, 
"  Come  to  the  dressing-room,"  and  saying  to  Mrs.  Webb, 
who  was  still  stationed  at  the  door,  "  My  mother  feels  a 
little  faint,"  she  led  her  gently  up-stairs. 

She  dismissed  the  maids  who  came  forward  with 
proffers  of  assistance,  asking  them  to  wait  outside  a 
moment.  When  the  door  closed  upon  them  she  turned 
to  her  mother,  who,  now  that  she  found  herself  free  from 
observation,  allowed  her  tears  to  flow  freely. 

"  Dear,  what  is  it  ?    What  has  happened  ?  " 

Mrs.  Winwood's  lower  lip  quivered  like  a  child's. 

"  Oh,  'Livy,  if  you'd  only  have  been  with  me  they'd 
never  'a'  done  it — the  cold,  cruel  things,  and  right  before 
a  crowd  of  people  that  know  us !  Oh,  you'll  be  snubbed 
right  and  left  now.  That  horrible  woman !  " 

"  Mother,  dear,  will  you  collect  yourself  and  tell  me 
just  what  happened?  My  number  comes  soon." 

"  Mrs.  Leidy  wouldn't  speak  to  me.  I  came  up  to 
her  so  friendly,  because  of  last  year,  and  my  hand  out, 
and  I  was  smiling,  and  she  turned  right  away — didn't 
even  look  at  me,  'Livy,  and  me  left  standing  there — and 
Miss  French  turned  away,  too;  and,  oh,  'Livy,  I  felt  as 
if  I'd  sink  through  the  floor! — me  left  standing  there 
with  my  smile  on  my  face  like  a  fool ! " 

A  burst  of  tears  followed.  Olivia,  who  had  grown 
very  pale,  stood  in  silence  for  a  moment,  holding  her 
mother's  hand  tightly  and  stroking  her  forehead. 

245 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  Dear,"  she  said  at  last  in  a  quiet  voice,  with  a  hard 
undertone,  "  it  is  the  last  time  they  will  hurt  you.  Be- 
fore Christmas  you  will  be  in  a  position  to  hurt  them. 
Dry  your  eyes." 

Her  mother  gazed  up  at  her  through  her  tears. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  'Livy?"  she  said,  half 
frightened  by  the  look  in  her  daughter's  face. 

"  Nothing  now.     Oh,  the  brutes !     The  brutes !  " 

She  set  her  teeth.  Her  eyes  had  the  fuliginous  qual- 
ity of  a  thunder-cloud.  There  was  something  in  her 
whiteness,  in  her  stillness,  that  alarmed  her  mother. 

"  'Livy,  don't  look  like  that !    'Livy,  speak  to  me !  " 

The  girl  closed  her  eyes.  When  she  opened  them 
again,  she  said  quietly: 

"  Don't  be  afraid.  I'll  go  down  and  play  my  little 
piece,  and  then  I'll  take  you  home.  After  that " 

Her  laugh  rang  out. 

"  'Livy !    'Livy !    Oh,  why  didn't  I  keep  it  to  myself !  " 

"  Hush,  mother.  You  did  right  to  tell  me.  They 
didn't  know  with  whom  they  were  dealing,  that  was 
all." 

In  that  instant  her  father  looked  out  of  her  face,  the 
iron  will  that  had  gone  straight  to  its  goal  unmindful 
of  cries  or  pleas,  of  barriers  that  dwarfed  the  highest 
Alps,  the  iron  will  that  recked  neither  of  God  nor  devil 
in  its  onward  course. 

"  Stay  here.    When  I  have  played  we  will  go  home." 

Olivia  descended  to  the  drawing-room,  smiling. 

"  A  little  overcome  with  the  heat,"  she  said  in  answer 
to  her  hostess's  inquiries.  "  I  thought  it  best  for  her 
not  to  come  down  again." 

"  So  sorry,"  Mrs.  Webb  murmured  politely.  "  Your 
number  is  the  next,"  she  added.  "  I  am  all  eagerness. 

246 


THE    DREAMER 


You  are  one  of  the  few  women  in  this  city  who  can  do 
justice  to  the  Appassionata." 

"  You  are  too  kind,"  Olivia  answered. 

She  sank  into  a  chair  wearily.  Her  face  was  ashy 
white.  Her  eyes,  dark  and  dilated,  saw  nothing  about 
her. 

She  heard  her  name  spoken,  as  if  from  a  great  dis- 
tance. She  rose  mechanically,  and,  with  a  little  bow  to 
her  audience,  took  her  seat  at  the  piano.  Her  hands 
rested  idly  on  the  keys  for  a  moment.  Mr.  Webb  came 
to  her  side. 

"  Do  you  feel  ill,  Miss  Winwood  ?  You  are  very 
pale." 

"  No,  I'm  not  ill,"  she  murmured.  "  In  a  moment 
I'll  be  ready." 

She  raised  her  hands  again,  hesitated,  then  began  the 
sonata. 

The  opening  bars  told  the  critical,  hypersensitive 
audience  that  no  ordinary  rendition  of  this  great  work 
was  to  be  given.  What  Olivia  put  into  it  she  dimly 
knew,  for  the  confusions  of  her  emotion  left  no  place 
for  a  distinct  ideal,  but  she  played  with  a  splendor  of 
interpretation  that  was  born  of  superlative  feeling.  As 
the  sonata  attained  its  height  people  moved  uneasily,  ex- 
changed glances,  betrayed  all  the  restlessness  of  those 
before  whom  the  human  spirit  is  walking  in  its  naked- 
ness. 

When  Olivia  had  finished,  there  was  a  dead  silence, 
broken  at  last  by  a  crash  of  applause.  As  she  glided  out 
of  her  seat,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  Webb 
bent  toward  his  wife. 

"  That  girl  is  a  genius !  " 

"  She  is  in  love,"  she  answered.  "  If  she'd  shrieked 
247 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

it  from  the  housetops  she  couldn't  have  told  us  more 
plainly.  My  dear  Miss  Winwood,"  she  added  as  Olivia 
came  toward  them  with  an  outstretched  hand,  "  you  are 
not  going!  Every  one  will  want  to  congratulate  you  on 
this  triumph.  It  was  a  marvelous  rendering." 

Olivia  smiled  faintly. 

"  You  are  very  good.    I  must  take  my  mother  home." 

In  the  carriage  Mrs.  Winwood  took  her  daughter's 
hand  timidly.  Olivia  was  leaning  back,  her  head  sunk 
on  her  breast,  her  eyes  closed.  At  times  a  quiver  went 
through  her  frame. 

"  Why,  your  hand's  like  ice !    You  ain't  sick,  'Livy  ?  " 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  have  worried  you,"  her  mother  said 
humbly.  "  I  guess  I  had  nerves." 

When  they  were  home  Olivia  put  her  lips  to  her 
mother's  forehead,  and,  bidding  her  good  night,  she 
went  to  her  room.  Her  maid  was  moving  about  the 
dainty  place,  lighting  the  candles  on  the  dressing-table, 
getting  the  toilet  articles  in  order,  preparing  to  put  her 
mistress  to  bed. 

As  Olivia  entered,  the  girl  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

"  Mademoiselle  is  ill !  "  she  said. 

"  No,  Jeannette,  only  tired." 

She  crossed  the  room  to  her  writing-desk,  and  began 
to  take  out  some  paper  and  envelopes. 

"Shall  I  undress  Mademoiselle?" 

"  No,  Jeannette.  I  shall  not  need  you  to-night.  Tell 
James  to  wait  in  the  lower  hall  until  I  ring.  I  have  two 
letters  to  send  out.  Tell  him  I  may  be  a  long  time." 

The  girl  lingered.     She  was  devoted  to  Olivia. 

"  Is  there  nothing  I  can  do  for  Mademoiselle?  " 

"  Nothing,  thank  you.    Go  and  get  your  sleep." 
248 


THE    DREAMER 


The  first  note  was  soon  written.     It  was  but  a  line: 

"  I  will  marry  you.  Do  not  come  to  the  house  until 
I  send  for  you." 

She  sealed  it  and  addressed  it  to  Paul  Mallory.  She 
rose  then  and  began  to  pace  the  floor,  a  terrible  look  in 
her  face.  Once  or  twice  she  stopped  short  and  wrung 
her  hands  convulsively,  but  not  a  sound  came  from 
her  lips. 

At  last  she  sat  down  again  and  wrote  a  few  lines  un- 
steadily. Then  she  rang  the  bell. 

Her  mother,  whose  room  was  just  below  Olivia's,  was 
listening  with  feverish  anxiety  to  the  sounds  overhead. 
They  died  away  for  a  while,  but  long  after  midnight 
there  began  again  the  tread  of  footsteps.  Mrs.  Winwood 
endured  it  as  long  as  she  could,  then  she  went  over  to 
her  husband's  bed  and  awakened  him. 

"  Henry,  I'm  worried  about  'Livy.  She's  been  pacing 
that  floor  for  hours,"  she  said  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "  I 
bothered  her  to-night,  but  she  acts  like  she  has  some- 
thing else  on  her  mind.  Ought  I  to  go  up  ?  " 

"  No,  let  her  alone,"  her  husband  said  crossly.  "  You 
couldn't  do  anything  if  you  did  go  up." 

Mrs.  Winwood  crept  back  to  her  bed  reproved,  but 
she  lay  awake  for  another  hour,  staring  into  the  darkness 
and  listening  to  the  footsteps,  which  had  not  ceased  when 
she  fell  asleep. 

When  the  first  light  stole  into  the  room,  she  woke 
with  a  start,  and,  recollecting  her  anxiety,  she  rose,  and, 
throwing  on  a  wrapper,  she  went  up-stairs. 

Olivia's  door  was  ajar.    The  girl  herself  was  stretched 

across  the  bed,  still  wearing  her  evening  gown,  the  red 

tints  of  which  emphasized  the  pallor  of  her  face.     Her 

closed  eyes  looked  sunken,  blue  lines  were  about  her 

17  249 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

mouth.  She  seemed  either  in  a  faint  or  in  an  unnatural 
sleep. 

Her  mother,  thoroughly  alarmed,  bent  over  her,  call- 
ing her  name  and  shaking  her.  At  last  Olivia's  eyes 
opened.  The  look  of  horror  in  them  made  her  mother 
think  that  she  was  still  dreaming. 

"  Olivia,  dear,  it's  mother." 

Then  her  lips  moved.  Mrs.  Winwood  bent  nearer  to 
her,  and  caught  the  words  spoken  in  a  whisper: 

"  Has  Robert  come  yet?  " 


250 


BOOK  IV 
THE   PRISONER 

"From  the  confessionals  I  hear  arise 
Rehearsals  of  forgotten  tragedies, 
And  lamentations  from  the  crypts  below." 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

"  JUST  what  they  want  to  know  is,"  Mrs.  Winwood 
said  apologetically,  "  whether  you'll  have  marguerites  or 
forget-me-nots  embroidered  on  that  particular  set." 

"  They  can  embroider  little  devils  all  over  my  linen 
for  aught  I  care,"  Olivia  said  in  a  bored  voice.  Her 
mother  remained  standing  at  the  door  of  her  room,  look- 
ing helplessly  at  her. 

"  Well,  I  never  knew  a  woman  yet  who  wasn't  inter- 
ested in  her  trousseau.  Why,  I'd  a  gone  wild  at  your 
age  over  such  pretty  things.  When  your  father  gave 
you  that  gold-mounted  toilet-set  last  night  you  scarcely 
looked  at  it,  and  he  felt  hurt.  I  know  he  did,  'Livy.  It 
was  every  mite  made  to  order,  and  the  pattern'll  never 
be  duplicated." 

Olivia's  face  softened. 

"  Mother,  dear,  I'll  thank  him  properly  to-night.  It 
wasn't  pretty  of  me,  I  know.  I'm  an  ingrate." 

Mrs.  Winwood  looked  at  her  anxiously. 

"  You  don't  act  natural  to  me.  You  don't  act  like  a 
woman  who's  going  to  be  married  in  a  month." 

"  They  act  like  fools  mostly.  You're  spared  that, 
anyway." 

"  Olivia,  dear,  you  seem  so  hard  these  days.  You 
don't  seem  happy.  I  wish  you'd  tell  mother  what  hap- 
pened that  you  took  Paul  all  of  a  sudden." 

Olivia  shook  her  head  and  turned  to  her  desk  again. 
253 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell,  dear.  You  wouldn't  under- 
stand anyway.  You're  just  a  good,  true  woman." 

Her  voice  held  bitterness. 

"  Was  it  anything  that — that  Robert  did  ?  " 

Olivia  smiled  faintly. 

"  No,  mother,  it  was  nothing  that — Dr.  Erskine  did. 
If  you're  going  down-town,  will  you  stop  at  Lucille's  and 
ask  them  to  send  me  up  some  hats.  I  suppose  I'll  have 
to  wear  hats  after  I'm  married,"  she  added  musingly. 

"What  kind,  dear?" 

"  Oh,  they'll  know.  They  know  better  than  I  do 
what  I  want.  Tell  them  a  little  about  my  dresses." 

"  Hadn't  you  better  come  along,  and  try  some  on 
there?  The  air  will  do  you  good." 

"Oh,  no,  I  can't  bother;  I'm  tired." 

"  You  never  used  to  be  tired." 

"  Don't  rake  up  my  lurid  past,  please." 

Her  mother  hesitated. 

"  Have  you  decided  about  the  decorations  for  the 
church?  " 

"  Yes,  annunciation  lilies  and  orchids." 

"  And  two  bishops  to  marry  you,"  Mrs.  Winwood 
said  with  a  thrill  of  pride. 

"  A  justice  of  the  peace  would  do  as  well." 

"  It'll  be  strange  to  see  you  going  up  the  aisle  under 
a  veil,  'Livy.  I  used  to  think  you'd  never  marry." 

"Well,  whatever  you  do,  don't  cry.  Such  incidents 
aren't  worth  tears." 

She  bent  over  her  desk  with  a  long  sigh.  Her 
mother  looked  wonderingly  at  her,  then  turned  away. 

When  she  was  gone  Olivia  rose  and  closed  the  door; 
then  went  over  to  the  window,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
gazing  out  with  heavy  eyes.  She  had  the  air  of  one 

254 


THE    PRISONER 


who  lies  awake  too  long  into  the  night.  Now  that  she 
was  alone,  the  mask  fell  from  her  face,  and  lines  of  suf- 
fering showed  in  it.  The  corners  of  her  mouth  drooped. 
All  her  buoyancy  and  confidence  were  departed.  She 
seemed  depleted  by  some  never-ceasing  conflict  with  cer- 
tain forces  of  her  nature  not  yet  overcome. 

After  a  time  she  sank  on  her  knees  by  the  window- 
seat,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  shutting  out  the 
dreary  daylight. 

"'  If  I  could  only  forget!     If  I  could  only  forget!  " 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  her  maid  entered. 

"Well,  what  is  it,  Jeannette?  " 

"  Does  Mademoiselle  forget  that  she  is  lunching 
out?"  the  girl  said  timidly. 

"  No,  I  haven't  forgotten.  Don't  look  so  frightened. 
Come  and  put  me  into  something.  Am  I  late?" 

"  No.  It  is  not  yet  one.  Has  Mademoiselle  any 
choice?  " 

"  Anything  that  is  easy  to  get  into.  You  want  to 
brush  my  hair?  " 

"  Yes,  Mademoiselle." 

Olivia  sat  down  with  an  air  of  resignation. 

The  hair-dressing  was  a  difficult  process.  Nothing 
pleased  Olivia.  Nothing  was  right.  Suddenly  the  girl 
laid  down  the  comb  and  burst  into  tears.  Her  mistress 
looked  up  in  astonishment. 

"  Why,  Jeannette,  what  is  the  matter?  What  have 
you  to  cry  about — you!  " 

"  Mademoiselle  is  so  harsh  to  me  of  late.  I  can  do 
nothing  to  suit  her." 

Olivia  looked  repentant.  She  closed  a  caressing 
hand  over  Jeannette's. 

"  Don't  mind  me,  child.  I  am  not  myself  these  days. 
255 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

I  have  a  headache  now,  and  I  suppose  that  makes  me 
cross.  You  won't  want  to  stay  with  me  after  I'm  mar- 
ried, will  you  ?  " 

"Stay  with  you!  Oh,  Mademoiselle,  I'd  go  to  the 
end  of  the  world  with  you." 

"  Marriage  is  a  kind  of  end  of  the  world,  but  not  the 
kind  you  mean,"  Olivia  said  musingly,  "  and  after  that 
the  judgment." 

She  was  dressed  at  last,  and  went  down  to  the  waiting 
motor.  She  gave  the  number  to  the  chauffeur,  then  set- 
tled herself  among  the  furs,  grateful  for  the  cold,  snowy 
air  against  her  hot  cheeks.  For  a  while  she  did  not 
notice  in  what  direction  she  was  being  taken,  but  sud- 
denly she  became  conscious  of  her  surroundings. 

"  Not  through  the  Park,"  she  commanded  sharply. 
"  Go  down  the  Boulevard." 

On  the  Avenue  she  passed  many  people  whom  she 
knew.  Their  recognitions  were  most  cordial,  and  Olivia 
smiled  to  herself. 

"  It  is  already  working  wonders,"  she  thought. 
"Cowards!" 

The  lunch  was  given  in  her  honor  by  Paul's  mother, 
the  guests  being  exclusively  young  unmarried  women 
of  the  best-known  families  of  the  city.  Some  of  them 
had  not  met  Olivia  before,  and  were  secretly  eager  to 
satisfy  their  curiosity  concerning  her. 

Olivia,  despite  her  seeming  indifference  concerning 
the  gown  to  be  worn,  had  in  reality  made  a  very  careful 
toilet.  For  the  first  time  a  little  thrill  of  pride  went 
through  Mrs.  Mallory  at  the  sight  of  her  future  daugh- 
ter-in-law, whose  gift  of  distinction  seemed  in  full  evi- 
dence on  this  occasion.  A  certain  pensiveness,  almost 
sadness,  in  her  face  added  to  her  beauty.  All  eyes  were 

256 


THE    PRISONER 


upon  her  as  she  stood  for  the  moment's  greeting  with 
her  hostess  before  the  introductions. 

It  was  Olivia's  first  taste  of  power  in  a  world  which 
hitherto  had  only  opened  intermittently  to  her.  The 
intoxication  of  it  she  took  deep  into  her  spirit,  careful 
that  her  manner  should  show  only  the  well-bred  indiffer- 
ence which  was  all  that  was  required  of  her.  She  was 
even  watchful  that  she  said  nothing  clever  or  memorable, 
lest  she  should  antagonize  these  women,  some  of  whom 
she  hoped  would  be  her  future  puppets.  After  she  was 
married  would  be  time  enough  for  the  brilliant  playing 
of  the  game.  In  her  interest  she  forgot  for  the  hour 
the  gnawing  pain  at  her  heart. 


257 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

"  THE  noise  in  that  next  room  is  getting  intolerable," 
Robert  muttered,  rising  from  his  desk,  and  opening  the 
door  into  the  dingy  hall.  There  was  no  one  there  but 
a  small,  very  dirty  child,  its  hands  rolled  in  its  pinafore 
for  warmth.  At  the  sight  of  Robert  it  stumbled  eagerly 
forward.  He  put  a  hand  on  the  matted  hair. 

"  Not  this  morning,  Carlchen.  I  haven't  even  a  fire 
to  offer  you,  and  I'm  as  hungry  as  you  are." 

He  pushed  the  child  gently  away,  but  waited  a  mo- 
ment, for  the  postman  was  entering  the  hall.  He  handed 
Robert  two  letters,  forwarded  from  his  old  office  address. 
One  was  from  his  mother,  and  that  he  put  aside;  the 
other  contained  a  small  check  in  payment  of  a  bill  long 
ago  relegated  to  the  limbo  of  his  losses. 

"  I'm  sure  of  a  roof  for  another  week,"  he  said  aloud, 
"  and  perhaps  two  meals  a  day." 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  "  divan  "  that  at 
night  served  him  for  a  bed,  and  remained  for  a  long 
time  motionless,  his  head  buried  in  his  hands.  The 
room  in  which  he  was  resembled  thousands  of  others  in 
that  quarter  of  the  town,  a  small,  forlorn  place,  all  the 
more  forlorn  because  of  the  attempt  it  made  to  be  one 
degree  above  the  tenements.  Its  cheap  wood  mantel, 
its  "  frescoed  "  ceiling,  its  staring  flowered  paper,  bore 
evidence  to  its  futile  ambitions.  The  exterior  of  the 
house  was  covered  with  excrescences  of  brownstone 
wherever  the  fire-escapes  had  not  encroached.  These 

258 


THE     PRISONER 


were  hung  day  and  night  with  bedding.  The  high 
brownstone  steps,  except  during  school-hours,  were 
crowded  with  children.  One  of  the  door-posts  bore 
Robert's  sign. 

To  this  place  he  had  come  because  he  would  not  go 
back  to  Trenthampton,  nor  let  his  parents  know  any- 
thing of  his  life,  except  the  fact  that  Olivia  had  broken 
her  engagement  with  him.  With  the  permission  of  his 
former  landlady  he  still  dated  his  letters  from  his  old 
address,  and  his  home  mail  was  received  there.  To  his 
father  he  wrote  cheerfully,  assuring  him  that  he  could 
keep  on  his  feet,  and  that  he  needed  no  assistance. 

During  these  last  ten  dreadful  weeks  many  things 
had  grown  clear  to  him,  among  them  the  reason  why 
men  sometimes  hurry  out  of  life  by  their  own  act.  More 
than  once  as  he  wandered  aimlessly  through  the  streets 
of  the  great  city,  the  only  flash  of  light  in  his  thick  dark- 
ness had  been  the  thought  of  suicide.  He  understood 
at  last  the  banal  crimes  of  the  newspapers,  and  why  men 
killed  the  women  they  loved,  when  they  themselves  con- 
templated self-slaughter;  that  the  tormented  souls  might 
go  out  together  upon  the  wind  of  death. 

His  head  sank  deeper  in  his  hands.  He  was  living 
over  again,  as  he  did  day  after  day,  that  last  scene  with 
Olivia.  He  sometimes  wondered  whether  he  had  really 
struck  her  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  or  whether 
in  his  delirium  of  suffering  he  had  confused  an  impulse 
with  the  real  act.  There  were  days  when  he  wanted  to 
write  her  and  ask  her  if  he  had  struck  her;  ask  her  quietly 
and  humbly  like  a  patient  who  comes  out  of  fever  and 
wishes  to  know  if  he  has  done  mad  things.  Her  face 
as  he  had  last  seen  it  was  ever  before  him,  calm,  remote, 
unrelenting.  He  still  heard  her  words: 

259 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  I  am  acting  with  my  eyes  open.  I  never  fool 
myself.  Why  did  you  love  me?" 

"  But  your  love  for  me!  "  he  had  cried.  "  My  God, 
what  of  that?" 

Then  she  had  laughed,  and  the  terrible  delirium  had 
come  upon  him.  Had  he  struck  her?  How  he  longed 
to  know  whether  he  had  struck  her!  He  could  remem- 
ber nothing  after  she  laughed,  until  he  found  himself  in 
the  street. 

"  Did  I  strike  her?     Oh,  if  I  only  knew!  " 

He  rose  and  began  a  feverish  walk  up  and  down  the 
little  room.  This  was  the  invariable  ending  of  those 
profound  absorptions  that  made  him  sometimes  like  a 
dead  man. 

After  a  while  he  paused  and  looked  out  into  the 
wretched  street.  It  was  beginning  to  snow.  People 
hurried  along  with  blue,  pinched  faces.  A  lean  cat,  with 
patches  of  mangy  skin  about  its  ears,  was  sniffing  at 
the  contents  of  an  ash-barrel.  Across  the  way  a  push- 
cart man  was  steaming  frankfurters,  a  little  crowd  of 
hungry  men  and  boys  looking  on.  Two  or  three  for- 
tunate ones  had  bought  a  roll  and  a  bit  of  the  sausage, 
and  were  eating  ravenously.  A  tall,  red-faced  girl,  her 
head  wrapped  in  a  shawl,  her  blue  hands  carrying  a 
pitcher  of  beer,  stumbled  over  a  child,  and  swore  at  it. 
There  was  an  answering  oath  from  the  child's  mother, 
who  stood  in  a  doorway.  The  girl  raised  her  hand  with 
a  threatening  gesture,  but  thought  better  of  it  and  hur- 
ried on  with  her  beer. 

"  Did  I  strike  you,  my  beloved  ?  My  heart's  dear- 
est, did  I  strike  you  ?  " 

He  could  stand  it  no  longer.  That  thought  was 
crowding  him  out  of  the  narrow  room.  Taking  his 

260 


THE    PRISONER 


shabby  hat  and  buttoning  up  his  coat  to  his  chin — he 
had  pawned  his  overcoat  on  one  desperate  day  of  hunger 
— he  hurried  into  the  street. 

There  he  hesitated  for  a  moment,  looking  up  and 
down,  uncertain  in  which  direction  to  turn  since  he  had 
no  reason  for  going  anywhere.  But  at  the  river  he  could 
at  least  draw  a  free  breath.  He  had  wandered  much 
among  the  docks  these  past  weeks,  finding  some  comfort 
in  watching  the  great  ships  prepare  for  unknown  jour- 
neys; in  imagination  he  followed  them  through  vast 
oceans  to  lands  that  he  would  never  see. 

He  lived  in  continual  amazement  at  his  own  situa- 
tion, yet  without  desire  to  better  it.  The  steps  which 
had  led  to  it  were  simple.  After  the  shock  of  his  part- 
ing from  Olivia,  he  had  gone  through  a  fortnight  of  men- 
tal agony,  which  had  brought  him  to  the  verge  of  an  ill- 
ness. During  that  time  he  was  a  wanderer.  From 
these  confusions  he  was  recalled  by  the  practical  neces- 
sity of  meeting  certain  demands.  He  had  to  give  up  his 
office,  because  he  had  no  money  for  the  rent,  nor  could 
he  concentrate  his  thoughts  long  enough  to  devise  ways 
and  means  of  bridging  over  his  difficulties.  His  instinct 
to  hide  from  every  one  was  a  powerful  factor  in  his  de- 
cision. He  removed  to  the  eastern  quarter  of  the  town, 
taking  up  his  abode  among  the  poor,  with  a  sense  of 
relief  that  he  had  no  longer  to  keep  up  an  appearance 
of  prosperity.  In  his  state  of  mind  the  baldness  and 
sordidness  of  the  life  about  him  were  in  a  certain  de- 
gree remedial.  Wealth  seemed  but  an  embroidered  robe 
drawn  over  leprous  sores. 

A  few  patients  came  to  him,  but  they  were  so  poor 
that  in  the  majority  of  cases  he  treated  them  free  of 
charge.  To  meet  his  daily  needs  he  began  to  sell  his 

261 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

chemical  instruments  and  some  of  the  more  extravagant 
fittings  of  his  laboratory;  then  he  began  to  pawn  his 
clothes.  All  this  time  he  was  conscious  that  he  was  not 
acting  altogether  like  a  man  in  his  right  mind,  yet  he 
seemed  incapable  of  changing  his  course.  There  were 
hours  when  he  had  the  horrible  oppression  of  a  sleeper 
who  struggles  to  awake  from  his  nightmare;  almost 
awakes,  then  is  forced  back  again  into  the  suffocating 
bonds. 

There  were  other  hours  that  his  mortal  shame  and 
weakness  were  in  the  one  fact  that  he  still  loved  her, 
loved  her  blindly,  wildly,  loved  her  though  she  had  been 
deaf  to  his  cries  while  her  hand  thrust  him  down  into 
the  pit.  In  imagination  he  lived  over  all  their  hours 
together,  now  touched  with  lines  of  scarlet,  as  if  his 
brain  saw  everything  through  furnace  heat.  Sometimes 
she  came  into  that  hell  where  he  lived,  like  a  quieting 
sweet  vision  of  early  spring,  holding  flowers  whose  cool, 
faint  colors  rested  him. 

The  snow  against  his  cheek  seemed  to  bring  him 
back  to  reality,  to  deliver  him  from  the  terror  that  had 
driven  him  into  the  street. 

"  I  didn't  strike  you,"  he  muttered.  "  I'm  not  well, 
Olivia.  I  imagine  things.  But  you  are  a  wicked 
woman.  You  crushed  my  heart." 

The  thought  of  her  wickedness  now  possessed  him 
as  thoroughly  as  had  the  thought  of  his  own  brutality. 
It  drove  him  through  the  streets  like  one  whom  the 
fiends  follow.  People  turned  and  looked  after  him  as 
he  hurried  along,  for  he  had  the  air  of  one  who  has 
risen  too  early  from  his  sick-bed,  or  who  goes  to  it  too 
late.  A  newsboy  offered  him  a  paper,  but  he  pushed 
him  aside  roughly.  Olivia  was  to  be  married  this  week ; 

262 


THE     PRISONER 


he  had  forgotten  the  day,  and  he  did  not  want  to  know. 
He  averted  his  eyes  lest  he  should  see  head-lines  and 
photographs. 

He  came  at  last  to  the  river,  to  a  dock  somewhat  more 
forsaken  than  the  others,  where  he  had  spent  many  hours. 
A  cold,  raw  wind  blew  against  his  forehead  with  an  acrid 
odor  of  wharf  water,  of  rotten  wood  and  tar.  He  sat 
down  on  a  pile  of  lumber,  and  began  to  watch  the  boats 
going  up  and  down.  As  he  did  so,  his  brain  cleared. 
She  came  to  him  with  her  hands  washed  free  from  blood. 
About  her  dark  hair  was  a  floating  light. 

"  Olivia,  my  saint!  I  wronged  you,"  he  cried  aloud; 
then  added  with  a  look  of  wonder: 

"  You  are  a  spirit,  I  know;  when  did  you  die?" 

A  longshoreman  came  up  to  him. 

"  Got  'em  again? "  he  said  cheerfully,  and  after  look- 
ing Robert  over  he  lounged  along,  laughing  a  little. 

His  words  brought  Robert  back  to  fuller  conscious- 
ness. Why  hadn't  he  remembered  that  the  fever  had 
come  on  regularly  every  day  about  this  time,  plunging 
him  into  dreadful  confusions?  On  previous  days  he  had 
held  this  in  mind,  and  thereby  kept  his  balance  through 
all  his  strange  wanderings.  He  put  his  fingers  on  his 
pulse  now,  and  began  to  count. 

"  I  guess  I'd  better  get  home,"  he  said,  rising  un- 
steadily to  his  feet.  He  was  glad  that  he  had  written 
to  his  father  quite  early  that  morning.  His  brain  must 
have  been  clear  then. 

He  walked  now  as  slowly  as  on  starting  out  he  had 
made  haste.  He  felt  very  weak  and  tired.  At  a  crowded 
street  corner  he  paused,  childishly  fearful  of  falling  down 
if  he  attempted  to  cross.  While  he  stood  there,  hesi- 
tating, a  young  girl  and  a  man  approached  him.  The 

263 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

girl's  fair  blond  prettiness  was  somewhat  nipped  and 
pinched  by  the  cold,  but  her  companion  was  gazing  at 
her  with  frank  admiration. 

Suddenly  she  paused  and  grasped  the  man's  arm. 

"Jim!  ain't  that  Dr.  Erskine?" 

"  Him  in  those  clothes — ah,  g'long!  " 

"  It  is,  sure  as  I'm  born,  it  is,"  she  repeated.  "  But, 
Lord,  what  ails  him?" 

"  Looks  like  he'd  been  drinking!  "  Jim  said. 

Firefly  cast  a  contemptuous  glance  at  him. 

"  Was  you  raised  in  the  country?  I  guess  I  know  a 
drunken  man  when  I  see  one.  He  looks  sick;  I'm  going 
to  speak  to  him.  They  don't  make  'em  any  better  than 
him,"  she  added  huskily. 

She  walked  quickly  up  to  Robert. 

"Dr.  Erskine!     It's  Firefly." 

Robert  turned  and  looked  at  her  wonderingly,  not 
altogether  trusting  the  evidence  of  his  senses. 

"  Why,  it's  Firefly,"  he  said  in  the  uncertain  voice 
of  a  person  just  awakened.  Then  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Your  hand's  hot,  Doctor.  You  ain't  well,  I  guess. 
Here's  Jim.  You  remember  Jim,  don't  you  ?  "  she  said 
in  a  coaxing  tone,  for  Robert's  eyes  had  a  confused  and 
uncertain  look. 

"  Yes,  I  remember  you  perfectly,"  he  said.  "  Are 
you  both  well  ?  I  hope  you  are  both  well." 

"  I  guess  we're  a  darn  sight  better  than  you  are, 
Doctor,"  Jim  said  frankly,  a  curious  pity  awakening 
in  him  at  the  sight  of  Robert's  thin,  fevered  face  and 
bloodshot  eyes.  "  You  don't  look  fit  to  be  out  of 
your  bed." 

"  I'm  not  quite  up  to  the  standard,"  Robert  said 
slowly  and  uncertainly.  "  I'm  a  little  run  down,  I  think." 

264 


THE     PRISONER 


"  We'll  walk  home  with  you,  Doctor,"  Firefly  said 
cheerfully.  "  Me  and  Jim  better  see  you  home." 

"  You  needn't  trouble.  You're  very  kind,  but  you 
needn't  trouble." 

"  Tain't  no  trouble,"  Jim  said ;  "  but  we  can't  get  a 
car  here." 

"  I  live  quite  near,"  said  Robert. 

With  an  effort  of  self-control,  worthy  of  those  who 
frequent  king's  palaces,  Firefly  kept  the  surprise  from 
her  face,  nor  did  she  glance  at  Jim  when  Robert  gave 
his  address. 

"  Why,  that's  real  near,"  she  commented,  "  that's 
just  a  nice  walk." 

Jim  put  a  strong  arm  under  Robert's  and  guided  him 
across  the  street. 

"  Don't  you  think  you'd  better  go  to  the  hospital, 
Doctor?  "  he  said  kindly. 

A  look  of  terror  came  into  Robert's  face. 

"  No,  not  the  hospitals.  They  know  me  at  the  hos- 
pitals." 

"  Well,  they  know  a  corking  fine  man,"  Jim  muttered. 
"  I  ain't  forgot  what  you  did  for  Firefly." 

"  No,  I'm  a  traitor,"  said  Robert  huskily. 

Jim  went  back  a  step,  looked  at  Firefly  and  tapped 
his  forehead. 

"  Nutty." 

At  the  door  of  Robert's  rooms  he  paused  and  thanked 
them  with  a  dignity  which  checked  Firefly's  longing  to 
enter  and  see  if  he  had  fire,  and  if  he  had  enough  to  eat. 
With  difficulty  she  kept  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  The 
poor  know  all  the  signs  of  poverty. 

"  Doctor,  may  I  come  to-morrow  and  see  how  you 
are?  "  she  asked  humbly. 

18  265 


THE     PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  Why,  you're  good,  Firefly,"  he  said.  "  But  I'll  do 
very  well.  I'll  dose  myself.  I'll  be  better  to-morrow." 

His  thanks  were  a  dismissal.  In  the  street  Firefly 
turned  to  Jim.  The  tears  were  streaming  down  her 
cheeks. 

"  He's  in  some  awful  trouble." 

"  That's  no  news." 

They  walked  on  silently.  Suddenly  Firefly  paused 
and  grasped  Jim's  arm. 

"  I  know!" 

"Know  what?" 

"  It's  Miss  Winwood.  She's  married  this  week. 
She's  flung  him  over.  That's  it." 

Jim  frowned. 

"You're  all  alike,"  he  muttered.  "Damned  if  I 
know  why  we  trail  around  after  you." 

Robert  made  himself  some  hot  tea,  and  took  some 
remedies  which  he  hoped  would  check  the  course  of  the 
fever.  Toward  nightfall  he  felt  better;  had  courage 
enough,  he  thought,  to  read  his  mother's  letter. 

It  was  written  from  Dr.  Gorton's.  He  had  insisted, 
she  said,  on  their  coming  there  until  Robert's  father 
could  look  about  for  a  new  field  of  work.  The  house 
had  been  sold,  but  the  sum  realized  was  much  smaller 
than  they  had  hoped.  They  could  not  live  on  the  in- 
come. The  letter  closed  without  her  usual  loving  greet- 
ings. Its  tone,  so  foreign  to  her,  was  distinctly  one  of 
discouragement.  Robert  read  it  over  and  over.  Yes, 
he  was  the  traitor  through  whom  all  these  misfortunes 
had  come.  He  had  betrayed  Brooke,  he  had  betrayed 
his  father,  he  had  brought  only  pain  and  deprivation  to 
his  mother. 

266 


THE    PRISONER 


The  fever  increased  again  under  the  stress  of  his 
self-accusations,  so  that  after  a  while  the  confused 
thoughts  and  wavering  visions  came  actually  as  a  relief. 
He  threw  himself  down  at  last  upon  his  bed.  Through 
the  cold  and  darkness  a  beloved  form  glided  toward  him, 
or  so  he  dreamed.  He  stretched  out  his  arms  and  en- 
tered paradise. 


267 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

BETWEEN  four  and  five  next  day,  Firefly  was  hasten- 
ing through  the  crowded  streets  toward  Robert's  dwell- 
ing. One  hand  clutched  a  shabby  but  thick  pocket- 
book,  the  other  a  knobby  bag  of  oranges.  Pinned  to  her 
jacket  was  a  little  dusty  bunch  of  violets  purchased  from 
a  street  vender. 

"  Lord,  ain't  I  glad  I  have  a  job,"  she  muttered. 
"  S'pose  I  couldn't  have  done  anything  for  him!" 

As  she  climbed  the  high  steps,  little  blue  hands 
clutched  at  her  skirts. 

"  Say,  lady,  gimme  a  flower." 

She  pushed  them  away  not  ungently. 

"  I  ain't  no  flower  mission.  Get  out  of  me  way.  I'm 
in  a  hurry." 

She  knocked  at  Robert's  door.  There  was  no  an- 
swer. She  knocked  again,  then  turned  the  knob  and 
entered.  The  room  was  cold,  and  had  a  close,  unaired, 
oppressive  odor.  Through  the  twilight  she  dimly  dis- 
cerned a  form  stretched  on  the  bed.  She  tiptoed  softly 
to  the  window,  drew  down  the  blind,  then  lit  the  single 
gas-burner.  Robert  stirred  uneasily,  but  did  not  wake. 
She  bent  over  him,  touched  his  forehead  and  the  hand 
that  lay  outside  the  sheet.  They  were  burning  hot. 

She  turned  the  light,  so  that  it  would  not  shine  in 
his  eyes  and  wake  him  in  her  absence,  then  taking  up 
her  purse  she  hurried  out.  She  returned  with  her  arms 
full  of  round  packages  of  kindling.  A  boy  accompanied 

268 


THE    PRISONER 


her,  carrying  a  bucket  of  coal.  He  put  it  down,  then 
stared  at  the  figure  on  the  bed. 

"Aw,  g'long,  you  rubber-neck!"  she  said  fiercely, 
and  he  fled. 

She  built  a  fire;  then,  when  the  stove  was  red-hot, 
she  opened  the  windows  wide  to  the  outside  air,  first 
covering  Robert  warmly.  He  stirred  then,  his  eyelids 
unclosed,  and  he  stared  up  at  her. 

"  It's  me — Firefly.  I've  come  to  take  care  of  you — 
whether  you  want  me  or  not,"  she  added  with  a  little 
break  in  her  voice. 

"  Firefly!  "  he  said  feebly.    "  Am  I  ill?  " 

"111  enough!" 

A  frightened  look  came  into  his  face. 

"  Don't  send  for  the  ambulance.  I  don't  want  them 
to  know  at  the  hospital.  You  won't  send  for  the  am- 
bulance?" 

"  I'll  be  sawed  in  two  first.  Don't  you  worry,"  she 
said  in  a  soothing  voice.  "  I  know  a  little  Jew  doctor  I'll 
get  for  you.  He's  homely  as  they  make  'em,  but  he's 
bright  like  they  all  are.  Jim  and  me'll  take  turns  nurs- 
ing you.  Would  you  like  an  orange,  Doctor?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

She  rose  and  put  her  violets  in  a  glass  and  brought 
them  to  him. 

"Ain't  they  pretty?  They'll  smell  real  sweet  when 
they  get  thawed  out." 

A  look  of  pain  passed  over  his  face.  He  closed  his 
eyes. 

"  Not  violets,  Firefly." 

She  understood.  Going  to  the  window  she  tossed 
the  bunch  out  to  a  passing  group  of  children. 

When  she  came  back  he  put  a  feeble  hand  on  her  arm. 
269 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"How  did  you  find  me?"  he  asked. 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember,  Doctor?  We  brought 
you  home  yesterday,  me  and  Jim." 

"  Yesterday?  "  he  said  uncertainly.  "  It  seems  very 
long  ago." 

"  Well,  I'm  here  for  keeps.  Now  shut  your  eyes  and 
go  to  sleep  again,  while  I  write  a  note  to  Jim." 

She  sat  down  at  the  desk,  and  a  look  of  martyrdom 
stole  into  her  face;  writing  was  a  painful  process. 

"  Dear  Jim,  if  you  help  me  nurse  the  Doctor,  I'll 
mary  you  the  moment  he's  well.  I've  got  to  danse  to- 
night, so  come  soon  as  you  get  this.  I'll  mary  you  hon- 
est, if  you'll  help  me." 

She  sent  the  note  off  by  a  boy,  then  stood  for  a 
moment  on  the  door-step,  looking  after  his  retreating 
figure.  She  had  sealed  her  destiny  in  this  promise,  and 
her  path  stretched  gray  before  her.  She,  too,  had  had 
her  dreams. 


270 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

WHEN  Brooke  saw  in  the  newspapers  the  announce- 
ment of  Olivia's  engagement  to  Paul  Mallory  she  had 
one  moment  of  return  to  the  primitive  instincts  of  that 
nature  of  the  flesh  with  which  the  nature  of  the  spirit 
is  continually  at  war.  Whatever  was  wild  and  wayward 
in  her  uttered  its  cry  of  thanksgiving.  Then  the  better 
self,  toward  which  she  had  groped  blindly  throughout 
this  summer  of  truces  with  death  and  the  powers  of  the 
grave,  rose  and  asserted  itself. 

How  Robert  must  suffer,  she  who  had  known  him 
best  knew  best.  She  knew  how  completely  Olivia  pos- 
sessed his  citadel  of  life;  and  she  recognized  that  Olivia 
belonged  to  that  order  of  women  who,  good  or  bad,  true 
or  false,  are  held  in  everlasting  remembrance  by  those 
who  love  them. 

The  fall  wore  away.  The  changing  fortunes  of  James 
Erskine  told  Brooke  that  many  events  had  been  drawn 
in  the  train  of  the  event  that  signified  most.  She  had 
always  known  that  Robert's  father  liked  Olivia,  that  he 
desired  his  son  to  be  on  good  terms  with  the  Winwood 
family.  Had  ambitions  too  high  brought  shipwreck? 

But  she  speculated  little,  too  absorbed  in  her  own 
problem.  Her  inner  life  had  become  one  continual 
drama  whose  climaxes  were  the  heights  which  she  some- 
times reached,  though  again  and  again  she  slipped  back. 
In  the  midst  of  a  domesticity  which  was  like  reading 
memoirs  of  her  mother's  life,  the  ordering  of  dinners, 
the  washing  of  grubby  little  hands,  the  sewing  on  of 
buttons,  the  darning  of  stocking-knees,  the  hearing  of 

271 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

sleepy  prayers  at  night  in  the  nursery;  in  the  midst  of 
these  ever-recurrent  duties,  her  thoughts  struggled 
through  desolate  places  seeking  rest  and  finding  none. 
What  she  was  trying  to  gain  seemed  to  her  at  times 
beyond  the  power  of  the  human  heart. 

One  evening  toward  the  last  of  January  she  was 
seated  before  the  nursery  fire,  holding  the  child  in  her 
arms  whose  life  she  had  watched  over  with  a  maternal 
intensity  and  clearness  of  vision.  She  was  thinking,  as 
usual,  of  Robert.  She  knew  that  for  a  long  time  his 
parents  had  received  no  word  from  him,  and  that  their 
anxiety  was  reaching  a  point  where  action  of  some  kind 
is  necessary. 

The  house  was  very  quiet.  Nothing  broke  the 
silence  but  the  snapping  of  the  wood  and  the  soft  breath- 
ing of  the  children  in  their  cots.  Outside  a  roistering 
wind  whipped  the  icy  branches  of  the  trees. 

Brooke  had  almost  fallen  asleep  in  her  deep  chair, 
when  she  became  conscious  of  voices  in  the  hall  below, 
then  of  the  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  She  knew 
Dr.  Gorton's  tread.  Of  late  it  had  grown  slow  and  heavy. 

He  came  into  the  room,  and  turned  up  the  gas.  She 
put  her  hand  over  the  eyes  of  the  sleeping  baby,  and 
looked  at  him  inquiringly.  He  drew  a  chair  to  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  fireplace  and  sat  down.  She  thought 
that  she  had  never  seen  the  signs  of  age  so  clearly  in 
him.  His  eyes  had  lost  their  brightness,  his  hands 
trembled  a  little.  He  did  not  hold  himself  erect. 

He  began  without  preliminaries. 

"  I've  come  to  speak  of  Robert.  It's  a  month,  you 
know,  since  they've  heard  from  him,  and  he's  in  the  habit 
of  writing  twice  a  week." 

Brooke  nodded. 

272 


THE    PRISONER 


"  Some  one  must  go  to  the  city.  His  mother's  not 
fit,  and  his  father,  you  know,  has  just  started  in  bookkeep- 
ing at  the  works.  I've  thought  for  a  long  time  that  there 
was  something  wrong.  I've  seen  some  of  his  letters. 
As  a  physician  I  noted  things  that  would  escape  them." 

Brooke's  face  grew  pale. 

"You  think  he  is  ill?" 

"  I  think  he  is  ill." 

A  quiver  went  through  her. 

"  What  do  you  think  had  better  be  done?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  the  one  to  go  to  the  city  and  look 
Robert  up.  You  understand  him.  You  could  do  for 
him  now  what  his  parents  could  not  do." 

She  was  silent. 

"Will  you  go,  child?" 

She  looked  down  at  the  baby. 

"  I  will  send  a  trained  nurse  to  be  here  in  your 
absence,  and  I  will  pay  all  your  expenses  in  town.  You 
could  write  to  Angelica  to-night." 

"  How  good  you  are !  " 

"  No,  I  am  old,  and  I  cling  to  what  I  love,"  he  said 
with  a  sigh.  "  Robert  went  to  shipwreck  for  a  woman,  as 
many  have  done  before  him.  He  needs  a  friendly  hand 
now.  He  needs  yours." 

A  bitter  look  crept  into  Brooke's  face. 

"  It  is  hard— to  be  friendly." 

Dr.  Gorton  gazed  at  her  intently. 

"  Your  love  wasn't  worth  much,  then,  after  all,"  he 
said  in  a  quiet  voice. 

"Oh,  you  are  cruel!"  she  cried.  "You  ask  so 
much." 

"  Yes,  I  ask  a  great  deal.  I  wouldn't  ask  it  if  I  didn't 
think  you  capable  of  replying  in  the  fullest  degree." 

273 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

Brooke's  lip  trembled. 

"  Godfather?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear." 

"  You  ask  me  to  forget  I'm  a  woman." 

"  I  ask  you  to  remember  that  you  are  Robert's 
friend." 

She  turned  her  head  away.     He  waited. 

"You  will  go,  Brooke?" 

She  was  silent. 

"  You  will  go  and  tell  him  that  I  want  him  to  come 
to  my  house,  to  take  up  the  work  that  before  long  I 
must  lay  down.  I  want  him  here  in  Trenthampton." 

She  was  silent.  For  the  last  time  the  human  cry  to 
love  and  be  loved,  the  memory  of  her  bitter  wrongs, 
struggled  with  that  self  toward  which  on  bleeding  feet 
she  had  dragged  herself  as  toward  a  star.  But  the 
months  of  her  desperate  pilgrimage  had  not  been  in  vain. 
She  bent  to  the  destiny  of  her  nature,  the  hard,  inex- 
orable but  wholesome  law  of  growth. 

"  I  will  go,  godfather.  I  will  do  for  Robert  what 
I  can." 

"  Brooke  speaks,"  he  answered. 


274 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 

"  You  won't  let  me  watch?  " 

"  No,  you  need  your  sleep.  I  can  catch  a  wink  in 
the  chair  here." 

Jim  looked  at  the  figure  on  the  bed. 

"  You've  done  a  sight  for  him,"  he  said  in  a  half- 
resentful  voice.  "  You  must  think  a  lot  of  him." 

"  I  do,"  she  answered  humbly. 

"  I'm  in  love  with  you,  and  you  act  like  you  were  in 
love  with  him,  and  he's  dyin'  of  love  for  some  one  else. 
Lord!  ain't  it  a  queer  world." 

"  You're  to  marry  me  as  soon  ^s  he's  well,"  she  said 
in  a  gentle  voice. 

"  Yes,  I  kep'  that  note.  I've  got  it  down  in  black 
and  white  at  last.  Well,  so  long,  little  woman." 

"  So  long,  Jim."  She  turned  from  him,  then  turned 
back  again. 

"Oh,  Jim!" 

He  paused  in  the  dark  hall. 

"  Here  a  minnit.  Say,  Jim,  don't  you  ever  repeat 
nothin'  of  what  you've  heard  him  say  in  his  delirium. 
It's  just  like  we've  seen  his  soul." 

"  Course  not.  I  ain't  a  lobster.  Shut  the  door,  or 
you'll  have  a  draught  on  him." 

She  shut  the  door  softly.  Then  she  moved  about  the 
room,  arranging  this  and  that,  looking  at  the  fire,  making 
ready  for  the  night-watch.  Robert  was  beginning  to 
mutter  and  to  toss  from  side  to  side.  He  put  his  hands 

275 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

to  his  face,  and  began  feebly  to  make  a  brushing  motion. 
He  had  done  this  so  often  that  Firefly  knew  just  what 
he  would  say. 

"  Take  her  hair  from  my  face,  her  long  black  hair — 
I  can't  breathe." 

Firefly  bent  over  him,  and  put  a  cool  hand  to  his 
forehead.  He  smiled  ecstatically  and  breathed  a  sigh 
of  relief. 

"  Yes,  Olivia." 

She  turned  down  the  night-light,  and  drew  a  chair 
to  the  side  of  his  bed.  Silence  had  fallen  on  even  this 
noisy  house,  for  it  was  now  one  o'clock.  The  streets 
outside  were  muffled  with  snow. 

She  felt  terribly  alone,  almost  afraid  of  this  man  who 
was  so  far  away  in  a  world  of  confused  suffering.  She 
had  followed  that  wandering  spirit  to  places  of  the  un- 
seen land  never  before  known  to  her.  She  had  listened 
to  words  of  love  whose  sweetness  haunted  her  like  the 
scent  of  flowers  borne  to  another.  She  had  heard 
snatches  of  speech  like  poetry,  and  cries  that  came  from 
a  soul  in  prison. 

She  turned  her  head  to  find  Robert  staring  at  her. 
The  look  in  his  eyes  called  for  her  courage. 

"  She's  over  there — don't  let  her  come  near  me.  Her 
face  is  so  pale — in  Paris,  dearest — come,  come  with  me. 
I  know  a  little  garden " 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  was  silent  for  a  while.  Firefly 
lifted  his  thin  hand  and  kissed  it.  The  rapturous  look 
passed  over  his  face. 

"  We  will  go  to  God,  Olivia.  Dearest — dearest — 
dearest — we — will — sleep " 

His  voice  sank  to  a  whisper.  He  put  out  his  hand, 
and  clutched  Firefly's  skirt. 

276 


THE    PRISONER 


"  It's  you,  dear.     You've  come!" 

"  Yes,  I've  come,  Robert,"  Firefly  answered  to  com- 
fort him. 

"  You'll  never  leave  me  again,  Olivia?  " 

"  No,  my  darling." 

"I  didn't— didn't  strike  you?" 

"No,  no,  no!" 

"  Blessed — it  was  a  red  rose — no,  Brooke,  I  can't — I 
can't.  Heart's  dearest,  I  didn't " 

"  No,  no,  no,"  Firefly  repeated  in  a  tender,  comfort- 
ing voice.  The  fear  of  him  was  going  away.  Her  only 
desire  was  to  reach  his  shadowy  distress  and  heal  it. 

"  We're  dead — it  is  good — we  died — that  night — 
Firefly." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  murmured. 

"  She  was  so  beautiful  and  proud — so  beautiful — I 
know  a  little  garden " 

She  was  glad  that  he  went  back  to  the  little  garden. 
But  in  its  peace  he  did  not  remain  long.  He  was  suffer- 
ing again,  groping,  calling  wildly.  Again  the  long  dark 
hair  smothered  him.  Desperate  at  last,  Firefly  began  to 
sing  in  a  low  voice  and  after  a  time  it  seemed  to  reach 
his  poor  confused  brain.  He  became  quieter,  and  when 
she  had  given  him  his  medicine  he  fell  into  a  troubled 
sleep. 

She  watched  him,  wishing  that  any  woman  in  the 
world  had  played  him  false  but  Olivia,  to  whom  her  own 
heart  had,  in  a  sense,  been  given.  She  remembered 
the  pretty  night-gowns,  the  visits  at  the  hospitals,  the 
flowers,  all  the  little  poetical  attentions  with  which  the 
sordidness  of  her  life  had  been  lightened  by  this  woman, 
who  had  acted  with  wide  difference  from  the  usual  great 
lady  playing  philanthropist.  Olivia  had  treated  her  as  if 

277 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

she  were  her  friend  and,  like  her,  loved  beautiful  things. 
She  remembered  the  gentleness  of  her  look,  her  voice, 
her  touch,  and  she  cried  out  that  not  her  hand  but  the 
hand  of  a  stranger  had  struck  Robert  down. 


278' 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

"  Do  you  feel  real  well  this  morning?  You  look  like 
yourself  again." 

Robert  smiled. 

"  I'm  fine  as  a  fiddle — thanks  to  you." 

He  looked  about  the  room,  kept  in  spotless  order.  Its 
every  detail  told  him  with  what  care  this  girl  of  the 
tenements  had  cherished  his  least  possession  during  these 
weeks  of  illness.  A  soul  had  dwelt  here  strong  and  im- 
passioned enough  to  make  of  the  sordid  place  a  temple. 
His  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  he  turned  his  head  away. 
Firefly  regarded  him  anxiously. 

"  I'd  like  to  dance  for  you  to-day,  if  I  can  get  Tony 
and  his  fiddle.  Would  you  like  to  see  me  dance,  Dr. 
Erskine?" 

"  Of  course  I  should." 

"  You  see,"  she  said  in  an  apologetic  voice,  "  when 
you're  stronger  I  won't  have  the  chance.  I'm  going  to 
marry  Jim  soon,"  she  added  wistfully. 

Robert's  face  lit  up. 

"That's  good!" 

Firefly  turned  away  and  walked  toward  the  window, 
and  stood  there  in  silence  for  some  moments. 

"Firefly?" 

"  Yes,  Dr.  Erskine." 

"  I  have  no  wedding-gift  for  you,  and  I  am  in  your 
debt  for  more  than  money  could  ever  repay,  but  when 
I'm  well  and  strong  again  I  hope  to  pay  the  least  part  of 
my  debt,  and  then — well,  the  rest  can  only  be  my  ever- 
lasting friendship." 

279 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  Don't  speak  of  debt,"  she  said  huskily.  "  You're 
never  in  debt  to  your  friends." 

"  Where  did  you  learn  these  things?  "  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  She  had  no  talent  for  self- 
analysis.  Robert  closed  his  eyes  in  a  pretense  of  sleep, 
but  his  thoughts  went  wandering  back  over  his  desolate 
winter,  which  he  now  regarded  passively  as  if  it  were 
another  man's  history.  In  the  fire  of  fever  his  own  self- 
consciousness  seemed  to  have  burned  away.  Even  that 
great  passion  belonged  to  old  legends  of  lovers  long  de- 
parted, whose  joys  and  woes  alike  are  seen  dimly  through 
the  haze  of  time.  His  deepest  sense  of  reality  was  in 
the  thought  of  his  work,  of  that  calling  to  which  he  had 
been  unfaithful  by  involving  with  it  ambitions  foreign 
to  the  pursuit  of  its  highest  ideals.  He  longed  to  be  on 
his  feet  again  that  he  might  plunge  into  the  baptismal 
stream  of  vigorous,  unceasing  toil. 

After  she  had  prepared  his  dinner,  Firefly  left  him 
with  a  small  guardian,  the  musician  who  was  to  play  for 
her  dancing.  The  child  had  the  glorious  Italian  eyes 
which  suggest  an  embryonic  Raphael,  but  his  busy,  mer- 
cantile little  mind  had  already  learned  the  chief  lesson 
which  his  adopted  country  has  to  teach.  He  wanted  to 
pitch  pennies  on  the  counterpane  with  Robert,  who  tried 
to  draw  from  him  reminiscences  of  Italy  the  beautiful. 
Tony  only  remembered  it  as  a  place  where  he  did  not 
get  enough  to  eat. 

In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  Firefly  returned. 
Taking  off  a  long  gray  ulster  she  appeared  resplendent 
in  a  spangled  gown  of  crimson  chiffon,  which  contrasted 
oddly,  but  effectively,  with  her  fair  hair  and  skin.  Over 
one  ear  was  a  big  red  rose. 

"  I  don't  much  like  to  dance  in  the  daytime,"  she 
280 


THE    PRISONER 


said.  "  It  always  seems  to  me  the  nearer  midnight  I 
get  the  better  I  can  dance.  Tony,  I  want  you  to  play 
like  you  were  fightin'  with  somebody.  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

The  child,  adjusting  his  violin,  smiled,  showing  his 
even,  white  teeth.  Firefly  pointed  to  a  paper  bag  on  the 
table. 

"  Candy,"  she  said  significantly. 

He  nodded,  and  began  a  brisk  melody,  which  might 
have  been  a  tarantella,  so  full  was  it  of  quick  transitions, 
of  a  certain  wild,  feverish  grace.  It  suited  Firefly's  mood, 
for  in  this  dance  she  felt  that  she  was  bidding  good-by, 
not  only  to  her  old  life,  but  to  fantastic  dreams  all  the 
more  dear  because  impossible. 

With  a  little  bow,  she  sprang  to  the  center  of  the 
floor ;  Robert  had  become  an  audience,  and  about  his  bed 
were  footlights.  The  next  instant  she  was  in  a  whirl 
of  chiffon,  as  if  a  great  crimson  rose  had  suddenly 
opened  its  petals.  She  danced  with  utter  abandonment, 
now  wildly,  gaily,  then  with  soft,  floating  steps  as  if  the 
music  were  about  to  carry  her  far  away.  She  improvised, 
she  made  poetry,  she  threw  all  the  invention  of  her  nature 
into  this  last  brilliant,  farewell  dance,  on  which  an  un- 
seen curtain  was  soon  to  ring  down. 

The  little  Italian,  his  beautiful  eyes  fixed  on  the  bag 
of  candy,  played  as  if  he  were  possessed.  Both  music 
and  dancing  were  infusing  a  strange  strength  into  Rob- 
ert. He  sat  upright  against  his  pillows,  his  eyes  watch- 
ing every  lovely  movement  of  Firefly,  but  his  soul  abroad 
in  the  world  of  men,  again  working,  struggling,  hoping. 

Suddenly  Firefly  stopped,  stood  poised  a  moment, 
then  her  arms  dropped  to  her  side  with  a  weary  gesture. 
Her  face  was  very  white. 

19  281 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

Robert  clapped  his  hands. 

"  That  was  wonderful !  You  have  cured  me.  How 
beautiful  your  dancing  is !  " 

She  smiled  faintly. 

"  I  guess  I'll  not  dance  again,"  she  said.  "  I  wanted 
you  to  be  the  last  one  to  see  me  dance,  Mr.  Robert." 

Her  voice  choked.     She  turned  away  her  head. 

"  My  dear,  I'll  never  forget  it,"  he  said  gently.  "  I 
couldn't,  for  I  could  never  forget  you." 

She  took  the  rose  from  her  hair  and  laid  it  in  his 
hand.  Then  she  put  on  her  ulster  and  her  hat. 

"  I'm  going  back  to  change,"  she  said ;  "  then  I'll 
come  get  your  supper  against  it's  time  for  Jim  to 
show  up." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Fire- 
fly crossed  the  room  and  opened  it.  A  tall  young  girl 
stood  on  the  threshold.  Robert  looked  up. 

"Brooke!"  he  cried. 


She  had  been  with  him  half  an  hour,  but  they  had 
as  yet  spoken  only  as  mere  acquaintances  might.  In  an- 
swer to  his  questions  she  said  that  she  was  staying  with 
her  aunt,  that  she  had  come  to  the  city  in  behalf  of 
Robert's  parents  and  at  the  request  of  Dr.  Gorton.  He 
asked  her  how  she  had  found  him.  She  replied  that  her 
old  friend,  Hugh  Bradley,  had  helped  her  in  her  search. 
At  his  former  office  Robert's  address  had  been  refused, 
on  the  ground  that  his  last  instructions  were  to  keep  it 
a  secret.  Therefore  she  had  had  to  depend  on  what  she 
could  discover  without  calling  in  official  aid. 

Robert  listened,  watching  her  clear,  pure  face  with  a 
282 


THE    PRISONER 


strange  wonder,  as  if  she  were  a  visitant  from  another 
world.  Suffering  had  matured  her.  He  felt  timid  in  her 
presence,  not  only  because  of  the  wrong  he  had  done  her, 
but  because  she  seemed  to  him  scarcely  the  Brooke  he 
had  known.  She  had  about  her  the  unintentional  aloof- 
ness of  women  who  love  and  are  not  loved,  and  who  have 
wandered  alone  through  a  universe  which  abhors  the 
solitary  soul. 

She  gave  him  Dr.  Gorton's  message.  Then,  misin- 
terpreting the  long  silence  which  followed,  she  rose  to 
go.  He  put  out  a  detaining  hand. 

"  Don't  leave  me.  Be  generous.  Stay  with  me  a  little 
while  longer." 

Her  face  softened.  In  her  deep  eyes  was  the  ex- 
pression of  one  who  has  entered  upon  her  maternal  life. 
She  sank  down  in  her  chair. 

"You  are  not  returning  at  once  to  Trenthampton ? " 
he  asked  timidly. 

"  Not — not  if  I  can  be  of  any  service  to  you  here." 

"  You  kill  me  with  your  forgiveness,"  he  said  in  a 
trembling  voice. 

She  was  silent. 

He  put  out  his  hand  and  clasped  hers  tightly. 

"  Am  I  a  coward,  a  wretch,  to  say  I  need  you  ?  Your 
mercy  can  heal  me." 

She  was  silent.  Both  in  thought  were  going  back 
to  a  childhood  which  had  known  only  sunshine.  He  saw 
her  a  little,  brown-faced,  graceful  girl,  scampering  after 
him  on  sturdy  legs.  He  saw  her  sweet  and  shy  in  her 
first  party-dress.  Beyond  that  time  he  could  not  go — 
beyond  were  ghosts. 

"  Let  us  go  there,"  he  whispered. 

"Where?" 

283 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  To  our  childhood.  Let  us  forget  that  we  ever 
grew  up." 

"  Let  us  forget  everything  but  our  friendship,"  she 
answered  gently. 

"You  are  my  friend?"  he  said  wonderingly. 

"  Always  that,"  she  answered. 

"  You  are  pure  gold,"  he  said,  "  but  I " 

He  turned  his  head  away. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  can  of  your  illness,"  she  said 
gently,  "  that  I  may  have  something  to  write  them." 

He  told  her  the  history  of  the  past  three  months,  his 
outer  history.  He  told  her  of  Firefly's  and  Jim's  devo- 
tion. She  listened  intently,  but  the  look  in  her  eyes  was 
troubled.  She  seemed  to  be  revolving  some  weighty 
question. 

When  he  had  finished  he  waited  for  her  to  speak,  but 
she  seemed  lost  in  her  absorption. 

"  What  is  it,  Brooke  ?  You  have  something  on  your 
mind." 

"  Yes." 

"  Would  it  be  hard  to  say  it—to  tell  me?  " 

"  It  would  be  hard  to  say  it.  It  is  something  that  I 
want  to  know  is  true.  To  suffer  for  a  mere  fancy  is  too 
terrible,  for  a  mere  wind  of  passion  too  ignoble.  Oh, 
can  you  see  what  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Don't  speak  to  me  in  riddles,  Brooke.  You  have 
the  right  to  say  anything  to  me." 

"  I  can  ask  you  a  question,"  she  said  in  an  uncertain 
voice,  "  but  you  have  the  right  to  withhold  the  answer." 

"  I  would  answer  truthfully  anything  you  chose  to 
ask  me." 

"  What  I  would  know  is  this — "  she  said  in  a  low 

voice.     "  You  still  care — you  still  love " 

284 


THE    PRISONER 


He  closed  his  eyes  a  moment,  then  he  answered : 

"  I  promised  you  truth.  She  was  the  whole  of  my 
life.  How  could  I  forget !  " 

She  bent  eagerly  forward. 

"  Oh,  I  want  it  that  way — don't  you  see?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  cried. 

"Can't  you  see?  I  couldn't  respect  you  unless  she 
were  the — the  woman  you  loved  better  than  anything  in 
the  world.  It  is  the  only  thing  that  justifies — that  makes 
it  possible  for  me  to  be — your  friend." 


285 


CHAPTER   XL 

OLIVIA  was  giving  a  dinner  to  a  Russian  prince 
whose  foreign  grace  of  manner  did  not  have  to  atone  in 
this  instance  for  an  unaristocratic  lack  of  riches.  The 
noble  was  as  wealthy  as  he  was  well-born. 

Paul  Mallory  was  endeavoring,  with  more  or  less  suc- 
cess, to  give  his  attention  to  the  dowager  at  his  right, 
a  fruity-looking  woman  of  fifty  summers,  who  demanded 
less  and  less  of  him  as  the  dinner  proceeded,  and  who 
seemed,  after  her  first  sip  of  a  wine  of  the  vintage  of 
1850,  to  be  about  to  attain  the  empyrean  silence  of 
Nirvana. 

The  eyes  of  her  host  wandered  continually  across  the 
circular  table  to  his  wife.  In  her  two  months  or  so  of 
marriage  Olivia's  beauty  had  increased,  had  hardened,  as 
it  were,  into  the  fixed  loveliness  of  some  perfect  sculp- 
ture. She  had  already  taken  on  the  authoritative  yet 
gracious  bearing  of  a  matron  whose  salon  is  to  be  a 
center  in  a  city  where  salons  are  practically  unknown. 

The  admiration  in  Paul's  eyes  was  mingled  with  that 
look  of  triumph  which  marks  the  lover  in  the  first  stages 
of  marriage.  She  was  his,  he  told  himself,  body  and 
soul.  He  felt  inclined  to  flaunt  his  happiness  before  his 
guests ;  for  since  his  marriage  something  brutal,  primi- 
tive, and  wholly  of  the  earth  had  crept  into  his  attitude 
toward  Olivia,  which  in  the  last  degree  was  perhaps  a 
superlative  joy  of  ownership.  He  had  been  a  slave  too 
long  not  to  enjoy  to  the  full  being  master.  Like  some 
men  who  are  pronounced  ritualists  he  had  not  realized 

286 


THE     PRISONER 


that  his  religion  of  lights  and  flowers  and  candles  and 
soft  music  had  been  an  outlet  for  a  sensuousness  of  tem- 
perament which  in  men  of  less  fastidious  nature  expresses 
itself  in  ways  wholly  secular.  Olivia  now  took  the  place 
of  his  prayers. 

If  before  her  marriage  she  had  made  him  miserable, 
since  she  had  become  his  wife  he  had  lived  in  a  state  of 
ecstasy.  Lovely,  yielding,  tender,  caressing  in  her  man- 
ner, outwardly  watchful  of  his  slightest  wish,  she  blinded 
him  so  thoroughly  that  he  did  not  know  at  what  an  im- 
measurable distance  from  him  she  held  the  citadel  of  her 
spirit. 

The  Russian  prince  was  bending  toward  her,  gener- 
ously appreciative,  it  would  seem,  of  her  thoroughly 
American  beauty  and  charm  of  manner ;  and  putting  into 
his  dark  eyes  that  look  of  worship  which  a  foreigner 
believes  the  exact  tribute  to  be  offered  to  a  fascinating 
matron.  Paul,  pale  with  jealousy,  watched  not  his  wife, 
but  his  guest.  He  had  a  wild  longing  to  strangle  him 
for  that  look  in  his  eyes. 

Olivia's  light  laugh  had  brought  a  flush  to  the  fore- 
head of  the  prince,  and  he  drew  back  with  a  touch  of 
haughtiness.  Then  she  turned  to  the  man  at  her  left. 
It  was  the  artist  Marston. 

"  I  am  to  paint  your  picture  in  that  gown,"  he  mur- 
mured. "  When  are  the  sittings  to  begin  ?  " 

"  Not  until  after  Ash  Wednesday.  I  haven't  one 
free  hour." 

"  Do  you  enjoy  your  whirl  of  pleasure,  Mrs. 
Mallory?" 

"  Of  course.  You  used  to  call  me  a  hedonist.  I 
think  you  were  just." 

He  smiled. 

287 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  There  is  no  use  in  labeling  you.  You  never  dispute 
your  labels." 

"  Because  my  friends  are  entitled  to  their  opinions 
of  me." 

"  There  is  but  one  opinion — that  you  are  charming." 

She  laughed. 

"  You  have  surely  known  me  long  enough  not  to  say 
the  conventional  thing." 

"  Ah,  but  I  do  not  know  you.  You  have  the  greatest 
gift  a  person  can  possess." 

"Indeed!    What  is  it?" 

"  Mystery." 

"  Why  is  that  the  greatest?  " 

"  It  is  nearest  the  divine." 

She  was  silent. 

She  turned  to  speak  to  the  prince,  who,  forgetting 
his  usual  courtesy  in  his  absorption  in  Olivia,  had  made 
no  attempt  to  enter  into  conversation  with  the  woman  at 
his  right. 

Mars  ton  watched  her,  a  dull  ache  at  his  heart.  He 
wished  that  he  had  possessed  the  strength  to  let  her  go 
entirely  out  of  his  life  when  she  had  rejected  him.  He 
had  remained  in  her  circle  partly  because  of  the  fascina- 
tion she  had  for  him,  partly  because  much  of  his  artistic 
inspiration  sprang  from  her.  To  be  with  her  was  like 
hearing  a  great  opera.  He  could  do  better  work  after- 
ward. 

One  incident  of  her  overfull  life  he  longed  to  pene- 
trate. He  had  heard  of  Dr.  Robert  Erskine  as  a  man 
whose  devotion  to  her  was  almost  the  warrant  of  her 
engagement  to  him.  He  knew,  furthermore,  that  she  had 
spent  this  last  summer  in  the  city,  and  was  often  seen 
dining  out  with  this  young  physician.  Would  it  be  pos- 

288 


THE    PRISONER 


sible,  he  wondered,  to  surprise  her  into  some  sign  of 
emotion  by  the  piece  of  news  now  in  his  possession  ?  He 
could  at  least  try  the  experiment. 

Without  preliminaries  he  opened  his  subject. 

"  I  heard  yesterday  something  concerning  a  fellow- 
townsman  of  yours  from  Trenthampton,"  he  said ;  "  but 
doubtless  you  already  know  of  Dr.  Erskine's  illness." 

He  thought  that  she  grew  a  shade  paler,  but  she 
looked  at  him  steadily  and  with  no  great  degree  of 
interest. 

"  I  have  not  seen  Dr.  Erskine  for  some  time,"  she  said 
quietly.  "  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  he  has  been  ill." 

"  One  of  his  hospital  brothers  told  me.  It  seems  he 
has  been  living  in  a  wretched  quarter  of  the  town,  prob- 
ably for  the  purpose  of  studying  social  conditions  there, 
and  came  down  with  brain  fever  or  typhoid." 

He  watched  her  closely  as  he  spoke,  without  appear- 
ing to  do  so.  He  thought  that  she  caught  her  breath  as 
if  with  a  sudden  sharp  pain,  but  if  she  did  she  regained 
her  composure  at  once. 

"  May  I  ask,"  she  said,  "  where  you  first  met  Dr. 
Erskine?" 

"  At  a  dinner  you  gave." 

Her  curiosity  seemed  satisfied,  and  she  turned  the 
subject.  Her  smiles  and  light,  brilliant  talk  during  the 
remainder  of  the  dinner  gave  no  evidence  of  a  wound. 

When  the  last  guest  had  departed  toward  midnight, 
and  she  and  her  husband  were  alone,  he  came  to  her  with 
the  joy  of  a  lover  and  bent  beside  her  chair  on  one  knee 
and  drew  her  to  him. 

"  You  are  glorious  to-night.  The  prince  thought  so. 
I  could  have  killed  him." 

She  laughed. 

289 


THE     PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  Oh,  my  dear !  if  you  are  going  to  slay  every  harm- 
less man  who  looks  at  me  you  will  get  into  trouble.  He 
is  a  nice  prince,"  she  added ;  "  he  knows  more  than 
princes  generally  do." 

"  You  seem  tired  to-night,"  Paul  said,  regarding  her 
anxiously. 

"  I  oughtn't  to  be.     Our  guests  were  entertaining." 

"How  could  they  help  but  be,  with  you  for  hostess?" 

"  You  say  things  very  prettily." 

"Olivia?" 

"  Yes,  Paul." 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  have  never  told  me  that  you 
love  me?" 

She  smiled. 

"  Some  things  should  not  be  told." 

"  But,  dearest " 

She  stopped  the  words  with  a  caressing  hand. 

"  Are  you  happy,  Paul  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  happiest  man  living." 

"Then  why  probe  it?  Be  satisfied  with  results. 
'  Where  the  apple  reddens  never  pry.' " 

"  You  are  right,  as  always.  But  sometimes  I  long 
for  the  direct,  simple  word  from  you.  I  want  you  to  tell 
me  that  you  love  me." 

"  You  would  be  less  sure  of  it  if  I  did,"  she  answered, 
rising  and  drawing  herself  from  his  arms.  She  went 
slowly  through  the  great  rooms  prepared  for  her  with 
all  that  wealth  of  attention  to  detail  which  marks  the 
lover  who  has  it  in  his  power  to  express  his  emotion 
through  beautiful  symbols. 

He  followed  her  up-stairs.  At  the  door  of  her  own 
rooms  she  paused. 

"  Bid  me  good  night,  Paul ;  I'm  very  tired." 
290 


THE    PRISONER 


His  face  fell. 
"Now?    Here?" 
"  Yes." 

When  she  had  dismissed  her  women,  and  was  alone 
at  last  in  her  rooms,  she  put  out  the  lights  that  she  might 
not  see  their  accusing  beauty.  The  ceiling  painted  with 
the  story  of  Eros  and  Psyche,  the  furniture  with  its  sug- 
gestions of  a  dual  life,  the  lovely  symbols  of  the  entire 
setting  hurt  her,  maddened  her  at  times.  She  had  ob- 
tained the  power  which  she  desired,  but  she  never  forgot 
the  price  she  paid  for  it.  In  her  hours  of  triumph  this 
did  not  seem  too  dear.  Paul  was  a  gentleman,  harmless, 
and  on  the  whole  tactful.  That  he  had  no  sense  of  humor 
was  perhaps  his  greatest  crime.  To-night,  with  the 
thought  of  Robert  turning  in  her  breast  like  a  sword,  the 
price  seemed  nothing  less  than  her  own  soul. 

She  was  too  restless  to  seek  her  bed.  She  moved 
about  in  the  twilight  of  the  room  like  an  unhappy  ghost. 
After  a  while  the  warm,  fragrant  air  seemed  to  suffocate 
her.  She  went  to  one  of  the  French  windows  and,  open- 
ing it  wide,  stepped  out  on  a  balcony,  screened  with 
evergreens  from  curious  eyes. 

The  cold,  damp  air  refreshed  her.  She  sat  down  on 
the  sill  of  the  window,  her  head  on  her  knees,  her  long 
braids  of  dark  hair  sweeping  over  her  shoulders  to  her 
feet.  She  wished  that  she  might  put  on  the  clothes  of 
a  working  girl  and  go  out  and  seek  Robert. 

But,  even  through  her  longing,  her  habit  of  acute 
self-analysis  asserted  itself.  With  her  curious  tempera- 
ment, which  desired  only  what  she  could  not  have,  to 
which  denial  was  more  seductive  than  possession,  and 
uncertainty  than  fact — with  this  temperament  would  she 

291 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

not  have  tired,  eventually,  even  of  her  passion,  and 
thereby  created  a  greater  suffering  for  Robert  than  that 
he  was  now  enduring? 

A  smile  of  self-contempt  passed  over  her  face. 

"  Perhaps  I  was  merciful  after  all,"  she  thought. 
But  the  vision  of  him,  ill,  alone,  and  poor,  haunted  her. 
And  because  she  was  now  bound  to  another,  the  tempta- 
tion came  to  her  to  bind  Robert's  life  to  hers  by  those 
spiritual  ties,  compared  to  which  in  strength  the  ties  of 
the  flesh  are  as  rotten  threads.  In  that  first  dreadful 
week  of  marriage  she  had  said  to  herself  that,  though 
she  would  be  absolutely  faithful  to  her  husband  in  out- 
ward act,  she  would  lighten  and  divert  her  life  by  every 
coquetry  of  which  she  was  capable.  The  fascinations  of 
the  soul  made  only  the  evils  of  the  soul  worth  while.  To 
keep  about  her  a  court  held  by  no  more  obvious  ties  than 
a  word  unspoken,  or  a  look  given,  was  a  triumph  which 
few  women  could  attain  to,  because  few  women  knew 
how  to  be  impersonal  while  inspiring  the  thirst  for  the 
personal  and  definite.  The  very  difficulties  of  the  under- 
taking enhanced  its  charm. 

Rejected  suitors  like  Marston  were  already  in  this 
circle.  Would  Robert  join  it? 

To  make  him  join  it,  to  reach  him,  to  blind  him,  to 
draw  him  to  her  again  over  the  gulf  that  separated  them, 
would  call  for  every  quality  of  her  peculiar  power.  But 
she  was  doubtful  of  success.  She  could  do  everything 
for  him  if  he  came — make  him  rich,  sought  after,  make 
him,  as  a  physician,  the  fashion  in  the  world  in  which 
she  moved ;  but  would  he  come  ?  She  knew  him  too  well 
not  to  know  that  his  pride  was  superlative.  Through  his 
pride,  his  desire  to  be  nearer  on  a  level  with  her,  he  had 
ruined  his  father. 

292 


THE    PRISONER 


She  thought  of  the  last  time  she  had  seen  him.  After 
his  cry,  "  But  your  love  for  me,  what  of  that  ?  "  he  had 
passed  into  silence,  had  stood  looking  at  her  without 
movement,  without  expression,  then,  like  one  in  a  dream, 
had  left  the  house. 

Would  he  come  to  her?  She  knew  herself  strong 
enough  thus  to  tempt  fate.  To  have  him  in  her  life,  to 
see  him  from  time  to  time,  to  feed  her  starved  spirit  upon 
his  devotion,  to  hold  him  always  by  invisible  chains — all 
this  might  be  possible  without  outward  disloyalty  to 
her  bond. 

Would  he  come? 


293 


BOOK  V 
URBS   BEATA 

"  He  overheard  those  he  loved  best  pronouncing  his  name  very 
pleasantly,  as  they  passed  through  the  rich  light  and  shadow  of  a 
summer  morning,  along  the  pavement  of  a  city — Ah!  fairer  far 
than  Rome ! " 


CHAPTER  XLI 

ONE  evening  in  March,  Robert  and  Brooke  were 
taking  their  daily  walk  along  a  street  which  bounded 
the  city  on  the  east,  one  side  of  it  being  lined  with  ware- 
and  store-houses,  the  other  with  the  river  docks.  This 
part  of  the  town  had  an  unfailing  interest  for  them. 
Neither  squalid  nor  conventional,  belonging  both  to  the 
land  and  the  water,  it  seemed  the  proper  setting  for  their 
own  moods'  of  transition — of  suspense  between  a  life  laid 
down  and  one  not  yet  entered  upon.  Since  Robert's  full 
recovery  Brooke  had  been  his  constant  companion  out  of 
his  working  hours.  In  her  presence  he  drew  near  to  the 
wholesome  sanities  of  life,  and  he  craved  her  strength 
and  poise  as  he  craved  bread.  All  that  was  beautiful 
and  true  in  their  old-time  friendship  seemed  to  come 
again  to  the  surface  in  these  walks  about  the  city.  They 
did  not  always  say  much  to  each  other,  but  they  were 
conscious  of  sharing  together  their  thoughts  and  sympa- 
thies. If  they  dwelt  in  a  gray  atmosphere,  it  was  the 
grayness  of  dawn. 

On  this  evening,  in  the  deep  light,  the  shipping  had 
almost  an  enchanted  look,  for  the  forests  of  masts  were 
pure  gold  in  the  last  sunshine,  while  beneath,  the  decks 
in  shadow  gleamed  with  little  lights.  They  sat  down  to 
rest  at  the  end  of  a  dock.  It  had  been  one  of  those  balmy 
days  which,  coming  in  March,  seem  to  bring  the  actual 
scent  of  violets  and  visions  of  yellow  daffodils.  In  the 
20  297 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

low  places  about  Trenthampton  the  pussy-willows  would 
soon  show  their  silvered,  furry  buds. 

After  a  silence  occupied  by  both  in  a  dreamy  contem- 
plation of  the  scene  before  them,  Brooke  said : 

"  You  will  not  alter  your  decision,  then,  to  remain  in 
the  city  for  a  while  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  can't  go  back  until  I  have  fought  it  out  here." 

She  looked  out  over  the  broad,  brown  surface  of  the 
troubled  river. 

"Will  you  stay  where  you  are — among  the  poor?" 

"  Yes,  just  where  I  am.  It  is  better  to  stay  where  I 
am  than  to  go  in  debt  that  I  may  set  up  again  in  a  good 
quarter.  If  I'm  worth  anything,  I'll  not  remain  hidden." 

She  nodded  assent. 

"  It's  all  true,  Robert ;  but  I  can't  help  wishing  you'd 
go  to  that  old  house  and  take  up  his  work." 

"Godfather's?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I'm  not  worthy." 

She  gave  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  Who  is  ?  The  work  will  have  to  be  carried  on  by 
some  one — it  ought  to  be  by  some  one  whom  he  loved." 

"  I  can't  take  my  fever  there.  That  dwelling  of  his 
is  as  austere,  as  withdrawn  as  some  temple  of  science." 

"  But  you  belong  to  science." 

A  look  of  pain  crossed  his  face. 

"  Don't  remind  me  of  my  terrible  failure.  My  pro- 
fession should  have  had  all  the  vitalities  that  have  gone 
elsewhere." 

She  seemed  not  to  hear. 

"  The  spring  is  coming,"  she  said.  "  Do  you  remem- 
ber the  little  hollow  on  godfather's  place  where  we  used 

298 


URBS    BEATA 


to  pick  the  quaker-ladies  ?  It  is  an  acre  of  peace, 
Robert." 

"  An  accusing  peace  to  me." 

"  No,  it  would  heal." 

He  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"  It  is  another  world.  I  can't  enter  it.  I  have  no 
right  to  enter  it." 

"  And  you  will  not  come  ?  " 

"  Not  for  the  present  at  least.  I  want  to  pay  my  debt 
to  Jim  and  Firefly.  I  want  to  leave  everything  free  and 
clear  here." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  are  right." 

She  looked  out  again  over  the  water,  and  he  turned 
and  looked  at  her,  thinking  how  noble  were  the  lines  of 
her  face,  in  which  desire  of  life  had  been  subdued  to 
duty ;  how  calm  and  frank  her  eyes.  He  wondered  why 
the  women  who  love  children  and  who  seem  born  for  the 
maternal  life  of  sacrifice,  though  they  may  be  the  objects 
of  trust  and  tender  affection,  are  seldom  the  women  who 
awaken  the  innermost  souls  of  men,  while  the  sterile 
nature  of  the  coquette,  who  makes  of  coquetry  an  end, 
not  a  means,  seems  best  fitted  to  fascinate  and  hold. 

"  God  will  have  to  answer  for  this  some  day,"  he 
thought;  "why  didn't  He  make  his  saints  alluring?" 

But  he  knew  that  Brooke  was  no  saint,  but  a  woman 
who  had  sacrificed  her  very  pride  of  womanhood,  her 
birthright  of  ruling,  for  a  friendship  which  she  had 
bowed  her  soul  to  recognize  as  the  one  reality  in  her  re- 
lation with  Robert.  He  lived  in  constant  wonder  over 
her  quiet  resumption  of  relations  which  seemed  never  to 
have  held  any  element  but  that  of  good  comradeship, 
touched,  perhaps,  with  intellectual  romance,  as  with  a 
pale  gold  light.  Never  in  word  or  look  did  he  surprise 

299 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

in  her  a  memory  of  the  time  when  they  were  engaged. 
She  seemed  to  shrink  from  such  memories,  to  desire 
chiefly  that  he  be  found  faithful  to  the  ideal  that  had 
wrecked  him. 

And  in  this  he  was  right.  By  a  paradox  known  only 
to  higher  natures  she  desired  that  he  should  live  and  die 
faithful  to  his  disloyalty.  She  herself  looked  forward  to 
a  lonely  life,  true  to  the  love  which  had  become,  in  a 
sense,  a  memory.  She  had  joined  the  congregation  of 
those  dead  lovers  whose  resurrections  are  in  the  service 
of  their  fellows,  in  the  patient  working  out  of  existence. 

But  there  were  moments  when  her  pulse  beat  too 
quickly  in  Robert's  presence,  and  when  her  heart  cried 
for  a  word  or  look  from  him  that  would  bring  back,  if 
only  for  an  instant,  her  short,  triumphant  dream.  Then 
she  would  shut  the  stone  down  on  the  grave,  and  write 
upon  it  what  she  believed  was  the  final  epitaph. 

She  had  made  up  her  mind  that,  now  that  her  mission 
was  in  a  sense  accomplished,  it  would  be  better  for  her 
and  better  for  Robert  that  she  returned  to  Trenthampton. 
He  was  strong  again  and  in  his  right  mind.  He  could 
enter  upon  his  work. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  she  said: 

"  I  am  returning  to  Trenthampton  day  after  to-mor- 
row, Robert." 

"Brooke!" 

"  Think  of  all  those  children ! "  she  said  with  a  little 
smile. 

"  I  have  no  right  to  ask  you  to  stay,"  he  answered  in 
a  low  voice.  "  You  have  already  done  more  than  I  could 
dream  or  hope  for." 

She  was  silent. 

"Brooke?" 

300 


URBS    BEATA 


"  Yes,  Robert." 

"  I  believe  in  goodness,  in  truth,  in  every  strong  and 
pure  thing  through  you." 

His  voice  was  reverent,  his  face  solemn,  as  if  he  re- 
cited his  credo.  But,  unsubdued  as  her  mortal  nature 
still  was,  the  high,  cold  words  chilled  her. 

"  You  should  go  to  no  human  being  for  that  belief," 
she  said. 

"  Ah,  but  men  can  only  be  religious  through  women. 
Left  to  themselves  they  are  utterly  material." 

She  smiled. 

"  Not  all  men,  Robert." 

"  If  you  are  going  Wednesday,  may  I  spend  to-mor- 
row evening  with  you?" 

"  Hugh  Bradley  is  coming  to  say  good-by  to  me.  But 
that  will  make  no  difference." 

"  He  has  served  you  faithfully,"  Robert  said  with  a 
touch  of  bitterness. 

"  He  has  been  a  good  friend,"  she  answered.  "  Let 
us  go  now.  The  night  air  is  cold,  and  you  still  have  to 
be  careful." 

He  rose  reluctantly.  How  vast  the  city  would  seem 
when  Brooke  was  gone! 


301 


CHAPTER   XLII 

WHEN  Robert  had  put  Brooke  on  the  train  he  went 
back  to  face  the  moral  loneliness  which  surrounds  a 
period  of  reconstruction. 

Toward  what  dawn  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  he  could  not 
as  yet  divine.  The  face  of  Olivia  still  looked  from  the 
only  stars  that  lit  his  night;  far-off,  inaccessible,  yet  still 
— the  stars.  He  saw  them  as  from  a  deep  uncovered 
grave.  With  the  curious  instinct  of  love,  he  separated 
the  woman  from  her  deed.  The  Olivia  he  had  known 
still  lived,  but  she  was  not  the  wife  of  Paul  Mallory. 

This  mystic  mood  was  not  for  his  reasonable  mo- 
ments. He  knew  that  he  must  deal  somehow  with  the 
wreck  of  his  love.  He  must  put  in  order  the  ideals,  the 
emotions,  the  thoughts  which  had  been  so  closely  bound 
up  with  Olivia  that  they  seemed  to  have  no  chance  for 
a  separate  existence.  What  was  he  to  live  for? 

Necessity  came  to  his  aid.  The  old  myth  of  Eden 
would  again  justify  its  profound  and  searching  truth. 
Work,  hard,  bitter,  unceasing  labor,  was  left  to  him.  In 
work  he  could  again  find  his  manhood  and  perchance 
some  springs  of  hope. 

He  began  to  attend  the  clinics  at  the  hospital  which 
knew  him  and  the  quality  of  his  skill,  and  to  keep  the 
office  hours,  which  he  filled  up  with  study,  though  after 
a  time  patients  began  to  straggle  in.  He  took  the  fees 
they  proffered  because  he  was  as  poor  as  they  were. 
His  evenings  were  spent  in  solitude.  With  what  instru- 

302 


URBS    BEATA 


ments  he  had  left  he  pursued  his  experiments.  When 
these  failed  or  were  completed,  he  turned  to  his  books 
again.  The  round  of  his  life,  limited  and,  in  some  ways, 
sordid  as  it  was,  held  remedial  elements.  Its  mechani- 
cal duties  brought  him  slowly  back  to  mental  health. 

So  with  his  persistent  labor  he  beat  down  the  thought 
of  Olivia.  His  letters  from  Brooke  and  from  his  mother 
were  all  that  kept  him  near  to  the  personal  world.  Cer- 
tain regions  of  his  existence  seemed  closed  forever.  He 
felt  sometimes  like  a  monk  who,  shut  in  by  stone  walls, 
painfully  transcribes  a  gospel,  nor  ever  glances  through 
the  window  of  his  cell  toward  the  summer  world. 

He  saw  so  few  people  outside  of  his  daily  round  of 
toil  that  he  might  well  have  been  one  of  a  silent  order, 
subduing  its  members  to  poverty,  chastity,  and  obedi- 
ence. Even  Firefly  and  Jim  were  in  a  sense  lost  to  him, 
for  since  the  girl's  marriage  she  had  seemed  shy  and 
not  altogether  comfortable  in  his  presence.  So,  after 
one  or  two  visits  to  their  little  flat — so  small  that  Rob- 
ert wondered  how  it  could  contain  the  restless  soul  of 
Firefly — he  said  to  himself  that  he  would  not  go  again 
until  he  could  discharge  his  obligations  to  them,  though 
he  knew  dimly  that  Firefly's  attitude  toward  him  sprang 
from  no  consciousness  of  his  debt. 

She  had  cried  when  he  was  gone,  but  to  the  aston- 
ished inquiries  of  her  husband  she  made  no  answer. 
Afterward  she  had  treated  Jim  with  remorseful  tender- 
ness, had  cooked  him  an  elaborate  supper,  lavishing  on 
him  all  the  attentions  of  conscience-smitten  affection. 
She,  too,  was  endeavoring  to  find  peace  in  the  daily 
round  of  work  and  service,  but  her  wayward  spirit  would 
wander  back  to  old  dreams;  and  like  the  call  of  dance 
music,  she  heard  the  voices  of  her  old  life 

303 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  I  wonder  if  he'll  ever  be  happy  again,"  she  said  one 
evening  to  Jim  when  he  spoke  of  "  the  Doctor." 

Jim  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  reflected. 

"  Not  if  he  lost  his  girl.  I  bet  I'd  never  been  just 
fool  happy  again  if  I'd  lost  you." 

" '  Just  fool  happy/  "  Firefly  repeated  with  a  sigh. 
"Why  can't  that  last?  We  think  we're  children  when 
we're  happy,  but  when  we're  miserable  we  know  we're 
grown  up." 

Jim  stared  at  her. 

"  Gee!  But  you  talk  just  like  a  book.  I  guess  you 
went  to  school  longer  than  I  did." 

A  little  smile  flitted  over  her  face. 

"  Yes,  I  went  to  school — a  long  while." 

Robert  came  home  from  his  clinic  one  night  with  a 
lighter  heart  than  usual,  though  the  reason  for  his  cheer- 
fulness could  be  traced  to  nothing  less  general  than  the 
influence  of  a  perfect  April  day,  which  brought  even 
into  the  quarter  where  he  lived  delicate  suggestions  of 
spring.  His  mind's  eye  beheld  steaming  brown  mead- 
ows soon  to  wake  to  their  "  green  felicity  " ;  soft,  clouded 
trees;  hollows  daintily  sprinkled  with  little  tender 
flowers,  distant  hills  with  violet  shadows  in  their  curves, 
all  the  lovely  austerities  and  withheld  beauty  of  April. 
He  put  away  the  vision  lest  he  should  hate  the  sordid 
streets  through  which  he  passed.  The  hour  of  his  re- 
lease was  not  yet  come. 

As  he  approached  the  house  he  discovered  signs  of 
excitement  among  the  small  children  perennially  on  the 
steps.  They  all  knew  him,  and  one  of  them  constituted 
herself  herald. 

"  There's  a  real  gent  inside  to  see  you,"  she  an- 
304 


URBS    BEATA 


nounced.     "  That's  his  carriage  comin'  round  the  corner 
now." 

Robert,  looking  in  the  direction  she  pointed,  recog- 
nized the  Winwood  liveries.  For  an  instant  the  color 
left  his  face  and  his  muscles  grew  rigid.  Then  he  turned 
and  went  slowly  up  the  steps,  only  half  sure  that  the 
child's  voice  and  the  carriage  were  not  the  figment  of 
an  imagination  which  since  his  illness  had  required  a 
tight  rein  to  keep  it  within  the  bounds  of  health. 

A  large  figure  filled  up  the  hallway.  Robert  rec- 
ognized the  massive  outlines  of  Henry  Winwood.  He 
came  forward  with  a  slight  air  of  embarrassment,  his  big 
hand  outstretched. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Doctor!  I've  had  the  devil's  own 
time  finding  you,  but  I  had  made  up  my  mind  I  would  if 
I  had  to  drive  all  over  town.  Letty — Mrs.  Winwood — 
is  ill,  and  she  wants  you  and  nobody  else  to  attend  her. 
You  always  were  a  favorite  of  hers,  you  know.  I  have 
the  carriage  here  and  I'll  take  you  right  along." 

Robert  looked  intently  at  him. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  oblige  you,  even — for  Mrs.  Win- 
wood.  I  appreciate  very  much  her  remembrance  of  me, 
but  I  do  not  think  I  can  attend  her." 

Henry  Winwood  rubbed  his  chin  thoughtfully,  and 
began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  narrow  passage.  He 
looked  perplexed. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  can  go  back  without  you,"  he 
said,  after  a  few  moments  of  silence.  "  Letty's  made 
up  her  mind.  She's  a  pretty  sick  woman,  too,"  he  added. 
"  I  can't  lose  much  time." 

"  I'd  like  to  oblige  you,  Mr.  Winwood,  but  knowing 
as  you  do " 

He  could  not  finish  the  sentence. 
305 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

Henry  Winwood  nodded. 

"  I  ain't  saying  a  word  for  Olivia,  Doctor,  except 
that  she  always  did  as  she  pleased  from  the  time  she 
wore  socks.  She  never  told  us  why  she  threw  you  over." 

Robert  made  a  gesture  of  protest. 

"  Don't  speak  of  it.     It  belongs  to  the  dead  past." 

"Well,  why  should  that  stand  in  the  way,  then? 
We're  another  family  now.  My  wife  likes  you,  has  con- 
fidence in  you.  You  don't  bear  us  a  grudge,  do  you, 
for  what  'Livy  did?" 

"  Oh,  no  grudge.  That  isn't  it.  I  can't  make  you 
see  what  it  is." 

Winwood  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Don't  try.  I  ain't  built  like  you.  Just  take  me 
as  I  am  and  help  me  out  now.  Mrs.  Winwood  ain't 
often  obstinate,  but  when  she  takes  a  notion  that's  the 
end  of  it.  I  just  surrender.  When  she  said  she  would 
have  you  I  started  to  scour  the  town." 

"  I  will  go  with  you.     Wait  a  moment." 

They  went  down  the  steps  between  a  double  row  of 
staring  children.  A  crowd  of  them  had  gathered  about 
the  motionless  footman,  and  were  exchanging  bets  as 
to  whether  his  trousers  had  grown  fast  to  his  legs. 

Robert  settled  back  in  the  deep  cushions,  with  the 
air  of  a  man  trying  to  relax  the  too  rigid  tension  of  his 
muscles.  He  felt  that  Winwood  must  hear  the  heavy 
thumping  of  his  heart.  His  skin  was  cold  and  damp 
with  perspiration.  He  was  not  yet  strong  enough  to 
resist  physically  the  pressure  of  his  nervousness. 

As  the  carriage  proceeded  up-town  Robert  caught 
glimpses  of  places  which  he  seemed  to  have  beheld  last 
in  another  world,  and  a  thousand  years  ago.  He  won- 
dered if  he  had  ever  really  belonged  to  this  world. 

306 


URBS    BEATA 


"Looks  real  gay,  doesn't  it?"  Winwood  said,  nod- 
ding at  the  throng  on  the  avenue.  "  Lord!  I  never  see 
these  peacock  women  in  their  carriages  or  showin'  their 
silk  petticoats  on  the  sidewalk,  that  I  don't  wonder  what 
poor  devil's  footing  the  bills  and  whether  he's  down  on 
the  Street,  or  getting  fifteen  hundred  on  a  high  stool." 

Robert  smiled. 

"  Marriage  is  a  costly  institution,"  he  said,  conscious 
that  the  remark  was  banal. 

And  now  they  had  entered  the  Park.  Robert  averted 
his  eyes.  He  was  afraid  that  he  might  see  her  walking 
beneath  the  trees,  and  be  not  sure  whether  what  he 
beheld  was  reality  or  vision. 

When  they  reached  the  house  another  carriage  was 
under  the  porte-cochere.  Robert  recognized  the  Mallory 
liveries.  His  first  impulse  was  to  say  that  he  must  re- 
turn, that  he  could  not  go  in.  Then  his  pride  fortified 
him.  He  would  go  through  the  ordeal  unflinchingly, 
that  she  might  know  that  he  had  still  within  him  the 
spirit  of  a  man.  A  horrid  accusation  entered  his  mind. 
Had  Olivia  persuaded  her  father  to  go  for  him? 

No.  Henry  Winwood  was  not  the  kind  of  a  man 
to  lend  himself  to  such  a  measure  of  deception. 

They  went  through  the  great  doors  and  up  the  broad 
staircase.  Robert  was  exerting  all  the  strength  of  his 
will  to  keep  his  mind  clear,  to  be  betrayed  by  no  tricks 
of  a  diseased  imagination,  for  already  the  scene  about 
him  was  wavering,  and  he  was  in  a  dreadful  uncertainty 
as  to  whether  or  not  he  had  dreamed  his  illness  and  its 
cause.  Would  Olivia  be  waiting  for  him  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, her  face  lovely  with  welcome? 

He  fixed  his  eyes  on  Winwood's  broad  back  as  the 
only  real  thing  in  the  surrounding  shadows.  They  were 

307 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

passing  the  drawing-room  and  the  little  blue-and-gray 
study. 

"  I  have  been  ill,"  he  whispered  to  himself.  "  I  must 
remember  that  I  have  been  ill,  and  that  Olivia  is  married." 

At  the  top  of  the  next  flight  of  stairs  a  tall  figure 
was  waiting,  a  woman  in  a  dove-gray  gown,  her  face 
shadowed  by  the  brim  of  her  broad  hat.  She  looked 
earnestly  at  Robert,  but  his  answering  look  held  no 
apparent  consciousness  of  her  presence.  He  was  saying 
to  himself: 

"  Olivia  is  not  here.  I  must  be  careful.  I  can  not 
trust  what  I  see." 

She  spoke  a  few  words  in  a  whisper  to  her  father, 
then  she  bowed  to  Robert,  but  he  did  not  return  her 
bow.  He  was  looking  straight  before  him  with  the  same 
strange  air  of  a  sleep-walker. 

Winwood  knocked  on  the  door  of  his  wife's  cham- 
ber and  entered.  Robert  followed  him.  A  nurse  in  her 
white  uniform  came  forward  to  meet  them.  On  the  bed 
Mrs.  Winwood  lay,  the  flush  of  fever  in  her  face,  and 
her  eyes  unnaturally  bright. 

The  sight  of  the  nurse,  the  sight  of  his  patient,  brought 
Robert  back  to  full  and  normal  consciousness.  The  fear- 
ful uncertainty  left  him,  the  shadows  faded,  his  waking 
dream  dissolved.  With  the  quiet,  hopeful  n.anner  char- 
acteristic of  him  in  his  professional  ministrations,  he 
stepped  to  the  bedside.  Mrs.  Winwood  looked  up  grate- 
fully. 

"  It  was  real  good  of  you  to  come,  Doctor.  I  just 
set  my  mind  on  seeing  you.  I  didn't  want  any  of  these 
big,  solemn  celebrities.  I  wanted  some  one  I  knew  and 
liked." 

He  pressed  her  hand. 

308 


URBS    BEATA 


"  You  knew  we  were  friends,"  he  answered  gently. 

When  he  had  finished  his  examination  he  looked  up 
to  find  Olivia  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  She  was 
in  a  dove-gray  gown,  and  wore  a  large,  plumed  hat.  He 
knew  then  that  he  had  passed  her  on  the  staircase  with- 
out one  word  of  greeting.  He  came  forward  and  with 
a  direct  look  held  out  his  hand. 


309 


CHAPTER   XLIII 

His  sense  of  unreality  still  uppermost  protected  him 
from  self-betrayal.  The  look  she  gave  him,  grave,  in- 
tent, and  profoundly  melancholy,  aided  in  establishing  his 
self-possession.  If  she  had  played  the  married  woman, 
hiding  past  offenses  behind  her  garnered  dignities,  he 
might  have  faltered  in  his  greeting,  or  accused  her  with 
his  eyes.  But  her  gravity  implied  an  inner  drama  which, 
if  known  to  him,  would  compel  his  pardon.  She  had  the 
look  of  a  person  just  entering  the  confessional  whose 
secret  sorrow  the  passer-by  in  the  dim  aisles  can  only 
conjecture. 

He  turned  from  her  to  the  nurse,  to  whom  he  gave 
some  directions.  Then  he  took  leave  of  Mrs.  Winwood 
and  her  husband,  promising  to  return  early  in  the  morn- 
ing. Olivia  meanwhile  had  left  the  room. 

As  he  passed  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  she  came 
out  to  meet  him,  an  austere  figure  of  a  dignity  which 
compelled  his  recognition.  In  that  instant  he  felt  not 
shut  out,  but  included  in  a  common  grief.  The  woman 
whom  he  had  been  prepared  to  scorn  and  to  hate,  if 
possible,  was  taking  him  with  her  beyond  all  temptation 
of  such  littleness. 

He  had  anticipated  every  aspect  of  their  meeting  but 
this — this  recognition  of  two  souls  etiolated  by  a  passage 
through  darkness — and  his  bewilderment  unnerved  him. 
He  stood  silent  and  motionless,  making  an  effort  not  to 
betray  surprise.  If  she  suffered  so  much,  how  could  she 
have  consented  to  become  Paul  Mallory's  wife? 

310 


URBS     BEATA 


"  Come  in  a  moment,"  she  said,  "  and  tell  me  more  in 
detail  of  my  mother's  case." 

He  followed  her  across  the  bland  room  which  had 
heard  so  many  of  their  conversations,  grave  or  gay, 
trifling  or  philosophic.  The  odor  from  some  flowers  on 
the  mantel  stirred  him  even  more  than  the  aspects  of 
the  room,  bringing  back,  as  a  perfume  will,  a  host  of 
memories. 

"  Sit  down,  Dr.  Erskine." 

"  No,  I  will  stand.  I  can  only  give  you  a  moment. 
I  have  an  appointment  at  the  hospital  in  another  half- 
hour." 

"  It  was  generous  of  you  to  come.  My  mother 
wanted  it  so  much  that  I  know  your  attendance  on  her 
will  aid  in  her  recovery." 

"  I  trust  so,"  Robert  answered  in  a  hard  voice.  "  But 
I  did  not  come  of  my  own  will.  Your  father  in  a  sense 
compelled  me.  There  was  nothing  generous  in  the 
action." 

"  I  am  the  best  judge  of  that." 

She  asked  him  a  few  questions  concerning  her  mother, 
which  he  answered  with  professional  brevity.  Then  he 
made  a  motion  of  leave-taking.  She  raised  a  detaining* 
hand. 

"  I  will  never  speak  again  to  you  of  the  past,"  she 
said  gravely,  "  but  I  think  the  hour  will  come  when  you 
will  thank  me  for  what  I  did.  I  can  only  make  those 
persons  happy  whom  I  do  not  love." 

"  The  logic  of  the  sword." 

"  No,  the  logic  of  mercy." 

She  rose  and  held  out  her  hand.  Already  she  was 
binding  him  to  her  anew  by  cords  woven  of  their  very 
sorrows.  The  subtlety  of  the  temptation  prevented  his 

3" 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

realization  of  it,  and,  good  actress  as  she  was,  there  was 
enough  of  the  real  in  her  attitude  toward  him  to  make 
what  was  histrionic  only  an  element  of  the  whole.  Yet 
as  he  turned  from  her  she  had  an  impulse  from  her 
nobler  nature  to  cry  out : 

"  I  will  not  see  you  again.  Go  from  me,  because  I 
can  give  you  nothing  but  dust  and  ashes." 

But  the  habit  of  years  held  her  dumb.  Why  should 
he  not  be  one  of  her  circle?  For  the  infidelities  of  the 
spirit  there  are  no  divorce-courts. 

Her  father's  voice  roused  her  from  her  reverie. 
"  Mother  wants  to  see  you,  Olivia.  Can  you  stay  a 
while  longer  ?  " 

"  All  evening  if  you  wish.  I'll  'phone  Paul  to  dine 
here." 

Her  father  knit  his  brow. 

"  Can't  he  dine  alone  once?  " 

She  smiled. 

"  Why,  yes,  of  course.  You  don't  feel  comfortable 
with  him,  do  you,  father?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.    I  hate  aristocrats." 

Olivia  laughed. 

"  I'm  an  aristocrat.  You  don't  hate  me,  do 
you?" 

"  Oh,  well,  you've  got  good  middle-class  sense,  with 
all  your  airs  and  graces.  It  always  seems  to  me  as  if 
your  husband  crosses  himself  before  he  enters  our  house. 
He  don't  like  to  come  here,  any  more  than  I  like  to 
have  him  come — and  what's  more,  he'd  be  glad  if  you'd 
shake  your  parents." 

"  I  married  him  to  keep  them  in  my  world,"  Olivia 
answered.  "  Paul  knows  perfectly  well  that  I  care  more 
for  you  and  mother  than  I  do  for  him." 

312 


URBS    BEATA 


"  You  ought  to  have  married  the  Doctor,"  Winwood 
said  abruptly. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  spoken  of  Robert 
in  that  connection.  A  blush  passed  over  her  face. 

"  I  liked  him  too  well,"  she  answered.  "  That  was 
one  reason.  The  other  was  my  ambition.  You  surely 
can  not  take  me  to  task  for  that,"  she  added.  "  Yours 
is  colossal." 

"That's  true,"  he  admitted.  "But  I  wish  you'd 
stayed  in  your  father's  class.  I  could  buy  up  most  of 
the  swells  in  this  town  if  I  had  a  mind  to." 

"  I  prefer  to  purchase  them  with  another  kind  of 
coin,"  Olivia  said  lightly.  "  Well,  I'll  'phone  Paul,  then, 
that  I  am  dining  here,  and  that  he  can  dine  at  home,  or 
go  to  his  club  if  he  likes." 

"  Yes,  do.  We'll  have  a  nice  little  dinner  alone. 
You're  a  good  girl,  'Livy." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  No,  but  I  have  some  originality." 

Her  father  looked  at  her  with  a  puzzled  air. 

"  Paul  Mallory  ought  to  be  proud  of  you." 

"  He  is.    Abominably  so." 

She  rang  the  bell  and  gave  orders  to  send  the  car- 
riage away.  Then  she  went  up-stairs  to  her  mother,  and 
sitting  down  by  her  bed,  took  her  hot  hand  and  held  it 
caressingly. 

"  You  feel  better,  mummie?  " 

"  Yes,  better  already.    Robert's  a  good  doctor." 

"  I  should  judge  so." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  It  was  broken  by  a  whis- 
per from  Mrs.  Winwood. 

"  'Livy,  did  you  say  anything  to  him?" 

"  Yes,  dear." 

21  313 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  What  did  you  say?  " 

"  I  thanked  him  for  coming  to  you." 

"  Was  that  all?  " 

"  No." 

"What  else?" 

"  I  told  him  how  good  I  had  been  to  him." 

'"Livy!" 

"Well?" 

"  He'll  not  come  back  to  take  care  of  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  will.     He  knows  I  did  not  jest." 

"  How  could  you  say  such  a  thing  to  him,  and  he  so 
white  and  thin  from  his  illness?  " 

"  Because  I  mean  to  be  good  to  him  in  the  future. 
I  can  make  his  fortune.  I  can  make  him  fashionable. 
His  attendance  on  you  will  start  him  upward." 

"  Your  father  says  he  found  him  in  a  dreadful  part 
of  town — the  real  bad  part  where  they  have  big  families; 
he  says  he  just  trod  on  babies  going  up  the  steps ! " 

Olivia  restrained  a  smile. 

"  He  will  not  be  there  long.  I  can  at  least  prove  my 
friendship  for  him." 

Her  mother  looked  at  her  earnestly. 

"  You  never  cared  for  Robert,  as  he  cared  for  you. 
You  shouldn't  have  led  him  on,  Olivia." 

"  Mother,  I  spared  him  at  the  last,"  she  answered 
humbly. 

Robert,  meanwhile,  was  on  his  way  home,  walking 
rapidly  down  to  the  eastern  quarter  of  the  city  as  if 
there  only  lay  salvation  from  thoughts  and  emotions 
which  had  come  out  of  their  grave  with  all  the  power 
of  forces  not  under  the  dominion  of  the  second  death. 
His  own  suffering  had  answered  the  call  of  her  sorrow. 
Her  gravity  had  drawn  him,  as  her  smiles  could  never 


URBS    BEATA 


have  done.  Surely,  surely,  he  thought,  somewhere  in 
the  depths  of  that  strong  and  complex  nature  must  be 
the  justification  for  its  seeming  cruelty,  its  apparent  ego- 
tism. Was  she  right  in  saying  that  she  could  not  make 
any  one  happy  on  whom  she  placed  the  claims  of  her 
affection?  Did  she  really  have  another  influence  than 
her  ambition  in  rejecting  him? 

Step  by  step  he  went  over  their  summer  together, 
gathering  all  the  evidence  at  his  command  to  support  a 
theory  which,  however  incomprehensible  to  a  man,  might 
justify  a  woman  with  as  intimate  a  knowledge  of  her  own 
character  as  Olivia.  He  caught  at  straws  to  justify  her, 
because  to  care  for  a  woman  who  had  betrayed  him  in- 
volved him  in  something  of  her  own  dishonor,  and  he 
knew — to  his  sorrow — that  he  still  loved  her. 


3IS 


CHAPTER   XLIV 

As  he  drew  near  his  own  dwelling  the  sights  and 
sounds  of  the  familiar  neighborhood  cleared  his  vision 
and  threw  into  the  dream-like  perspective  his  recent  ex- 
perience. He  had  the  sensation  of  being  once  more  with 
real  things  and  people. 

He  let  himself  into  his  rooms,  feeling,  for  the  first 
time  since  his  occupancy  of  them,  that  they  were  home 
to  him.  Here,  at  least,  he  could  work  out  his  problem 
without  the  complications  introduced  by  the  elements 
of  wealth  and  of  that  "  culture  "  beneath  which  so  many 
barbarities  are  hidden.  He  was  still  near  enough  to 
defeat  and  pain  to  be  glad  of  his  surroundings. 

In  his  box  he  found  two  letters — one  from  his  father 
and  one  from  Brooke.  His  father  wrote  that  they  had 
taken  a  small  cottage  situated  on  Dr.  Gorton's  farm, 
and  were  beginning  to  turn  it  into  some  semblance  of  the 
old  home  with  the  aid  of  the  furniture,  of  the  books  and 
pictures.  Margaret  Erskine  was  already  busied  with  the 
setting  out  of  her  garden,  and,  if  not  happy,  was  at  least 
content. 

"  I  am  neither  happy  nor  content,"  the  letter  con- 
cluded, "  but  my  work  is  absorbing  enough  to  keep  me 
from  thinking.  I  hope  yours  is,  too.  Together  we  may 
forge  something  out." 

Brooke's  letter  was  interesting.  She  was  evidently 
feeding  her  spirit  with  books  and  what  glimpses  of  nature 

316 


URBS    BEATA 


she  could  obtain  in  her  rare  moments  of  leisure.  Her 
description  of  the  little  round  of  her  existence  was  inter- 
spersed with  quaint  comments,  as  if  she  had  become, 
despite  her  activities,  thoroughly  the  looker-on  at  the 
play  of  life. 

The  vision  of  her  clear,  strong  face  could  do  little  on 
this  evening  to  calm  Robert's  excited  imagination,  but 
he  thought  of  her  with  infinite  regret.  Marriage  was 
possible  to  neither  of  them,  for  they  had  loved  too  well. 

These  two  letters,  with  their  gray,  pensive  atmos- 
phere, seemed  to  fall  in  with  his  visions  of  early  April 
before  the  interlude  of  his  meeting  with  Olivia.  He  read 
them  through  again,  then  began  a  review  of  his  hour 
in  the  Winwood  house.  He  tried  to  scourge  himself 
for  his  weakness  in  consenting  to  go  there,  but  his  hand 
fell  to  his  side.  He  raised  the  whip,  but  she  intervened. 

The  end  of  his  struggle  was  the  determination  to 
have  no  further  conversation  with  Olivia  unless  abso- 
lutely forced  upon  him  by  the  presence  of  others.  By 
degrees  he  returned  to  that  calm  of  negation  so  deeply 
cherished  by  him  during  the  past  few  weeks. 

Yet  he  realized  that  he  was  impatient  for  morning  to 
come.  He  wanted  to  go  again  to  the  house  which  held 
the  memory  of  his  love,  as  well  as  the  memory  of  his 
humiliation. 

He  was  relieved  to  find  only  the  nurse  with  Mrs. 
Winwood,  who  welcomed  him  eagerly,  as  if  he  brought 
something  more  to  her  than  the  mere  assurance  of  his 
professional  skill.  She  seemed  endeavoring  in  a  blind, 
groping  way  to  atone  to  him  for  some  wrong,  of  which 
she  had  only  a  partial  understanding.  When  he  had 
finished  his  examination,  she  looked  up  coaxingly. 

"  Are  you  in  a  great  hurry,  Dr.  Erskine?" 
317 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

"  I'm  not  in  a  hurry  at  all." 

"  Would  you  mind  sitting  with  me  a  little?  I  get  so 
lonesome." 

"  I  am  only  too  glad  to  stay  a  while,"  he  said,  seat- 
ing himself  by  the  bed. 

She  looked  at  him  intently. 

"  Do  you  work  very  hard  these  days,  Doctor?  " 

He  smiled. 

"  Not  so  hard  as  I'd  like." 

"  It's  not  easy  to  build  up  a  practise,  is  it?  "  she  said 
in  a  sympathetic  voice. 

"  No,  not  easy.  And  I  have  been  interrupted  by 
illness — by  many  things." 

"  When  I  get  well,"  she  said  confidentially,  "  I'll  men- 
tion you  to  my  friends.  Now — now  that  I'm — well — 
now  that  Olivia — "  She  broke  off  embarrassed,  for  Rob- 
ert's face  had  hardened.  "  I  only  mean,  Doctor,  that  I 
can  help  you.  Everything's  a  matter  of  fashion  in  this 
town  anyway.  Not  that  you  aren't — but  if  you  had  an 
office  up-town " 

Her  broad,  wholesome,  simple  face  was  full  of  affec- 
tionate anxiety.  Robert  saw  the  mother  in  her  look  and 
forgave  her. 

"  I  can't  climb  except  on  steps  of  my  own  hewing," 
he  answered  gently,  "  but  I  thank  you  for  your  interest 
in  my  success." 

He  went  away  from  her  with  a  curious  wonder  over 
the  turn  events  had  taken,  yet  with  a  determination  to 
forge  no  further  links  in  the  chain  begun  by  his  attend- 
ance upon  Mrs.  Winwood. 

For  several  days  he  did  not  see  Olivia.  He  told 
himself  that  he  was  relieved,  but  though  the  fact  humili- 
ated him,  he  knew  in  the  depths  of  his  heart  that  he 

318 


URBS    BEATA 


longed  to  see  her  again,  before  the  end  of  his  profes- 
sional visits  at  this  house  would  render  further  inter- 
course with  her  impossible.  He  was  living  in  a  kind  of 
interlude.  The  curtain  must  rise  again  on  tragedy  or 
on  hopeless  submission. 

One  evening  toward  the  end  of  April,  as  he  was  de- 
scending the  staircase  after  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Winwood,  he 
met  Olivia  and  Paul  Mallory  on  the  landing.  Mallory 
bowed  to  him  stiffly  and  did  not  hold  out  his  hand.  For 
an  instant  a  blind  anger  filled  Robert;  then,  exercising 
all  his  self-control,  he  returned  the  bow  with  frigid  ex- 
actness, and,  after  greeting  Olivia,  was  about  to  pass  on, 
when  she  detained  him. 

"  Come  into  my  old  study  a  moment,  Dr.  Erskine. 
Paul,  please  go  and  tell  my  mother  that  I  shall  be  with 
her  very  soon." 

Mallory  hesitated.  Man  of  the  world  as  he  was,  he 
could  not  keep  from  his  face  his  feeling  of  remonstrance, 
but  Olivia  was  already  leading  the  way  to  the  study 
with  that  air  of  unconcern  which  was  always  about  her 
like  a  sure  armor.  Robert  had  once  said  to  her  that  had 
Dante  possessed  her  nonchalance  he  would  have  needed 
no  guide  through  the  three  regions. 

The  little  study  was  unchanged.  A  bowl  of  blossoms 
was  placed  in  the  open  window,  and  under  their  pale 
sweetness  sat  Dr.  Faustus  dreaming,  as  usual,  his  end- 
less dreams. 

Olivia  went  over  to  him  and  stroked  him. 

"  What  indifference,"  she  murmured.  "  Faustus, 
when  I  can  attain  to  that  I  shall  have  the  metropolis  at 
my  feet." 

"  That  has  always  been  your  ambition,  has  it  not  ?  " 
Robert  said. 

319 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

She  turned.  The  look  in  her  dark  eyes  made  his 
words  seem  wantonly  cruel. 

"  Yes,  but  I  pay  the  price,"  she  answered  wear- 
ily. "  We  can  have  anything  we  want  if  we'll  pay  for 
it." 

"  Is  it  worth  it  ?  "  he  said  in  a  gentler  voice. 

"  To  me,  yes.  I  have  to  live  at  the  summit  of  things. 
I  can  be  frank  with  you  now." 

"  It  is  not  a  high  ideal." 

"  I  hate  the  very  word,"  she  said  bitterly.  "  Aren't 
we  all  profound  egotists,  and  the  greatest  saints  the 
greatest  egotists  of  all  because  they  don't  dare  express 
themselves  except  in  terms  of  a  world  they  hope  to  gain 
by  fruitlessness  in  this.  What  are  ideals  but  the  arro- 
gance of  dreamers !  " 

"  You  are  right  for  yourself,"  Robert  said. 

She  smiled  sadly. 

"  I  see  you  banish  me  from  the  aristocracy  of  dream- 
ers, but  then  you  were  always  rigid.  Perhaps,  some 
day,  you  will  understand." 

His  face  grew  gray:  terrible  for  the  moment  with 
sharp  lines  of  pain.  Her  own  was  infinitely  tender,  yet 
aloof,  and  unreal  to  him  as  if  he  saw  it  in  a  picture. 

"  I  understand  one  thing  at  least,"  he  said. 

"What  is  that?" 

"  That  the  dreamers  also  pay." 

"Do  they?"  she  said  softly.  She  turned  from  him, 
then  crossed  the  room  and  took  from  the  cabinet 
a  little  book. 

"  Come  and  read,"  she  said,  a  touch  of  the  old  im- 
periousness  in  her  manner. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went  to  her  side,  stifling 
his  longing  to  put  his  arms  about  her,  to  bear  her  away 

320 


URBS    BEATA 


with  him  forever.  He  bent  his  head  over  the  lines  to 
which  her  finger  pointed: 

"  Shall  I  know  thee  again  when  I  see  thee:  and  will 
the  Spirit  of  God  say  to  thee  in  that  day,  '  This  is  thy 
Beloved'?" 

"O  soul  of  my  soul!  would  God  I  were  one  with 
thee,  even  though  it  were  in  death!  " 

"  Thou  hast  all  of  my  love,  my  desire,  and  my  sorrow; 
yea,  my  life  is  mingled  with  thine  and  is  gone  forth  with 
thee!" 

He  drew  back,  and  looked  at  her  as  if  they  stood 
before  the  final  bar  of  judgment.  For  an  instant,  but 
only  for  an  instant,  the  words  he  had  read  became  a 
spirit  of  flame  in  her  eyes — the  call,  the  cry,  the  yearn- 
ing, the  despair.  Then  she  closed  the  book  with  a  ges- 
ture of  impatience. 

"  A  poet  wrote  it,"  she  said. 

The  struggle  within  him  kept  him  dumb.  They  stood 
in  silence  for  a  moment,  then  the  look  in  her  face  became 
more  than  he  could  bear.  He  made  a  motion  of  leave- 
taking. 

"  Will  you  keep  the  book?  "  she  said,  holding  it  out 
to  him. 

"  It  is  your  wish  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  voice  almost  in- 
audible. 

"  Perhaps — or  a  caprice." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Then  Robert  opened 
the  door. 

"  I  think  your  husband  is  seeking  you." 

"  Probably,"  she  answered,  and  swept  past  him,  while 
he  bowed  low,  not  daring  again  to  meet  her  eyes. 

His  spirit  cried  out  to  her.  From  henceforth  they 
were  both  wanderers.  The  temptation  was  strong  upon 

321 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

him  to  remain  where  he  might  watch  her  groping,  and 
assure  himself  that  she  suffered,  assure  himself  by  this 
suffering  that  the  woman  he  had  believed  in  still  lived. 

That  night  he  read  hungrily  in  the  little  book.  Her 
face  looked  from  its  pages,  but  across  the  ecstatic  light 
of  that  message  fell  the  dark  shadow  of  his  doubt. 


322 


CHAPTER  XLV 

"  BUT  my  wife  wants  you  to  continue  your  visits  a 
while  longer.  I'd  like  you  to  humor  her,  because  they 
give  her  something  to  look  forward  to.  She  misses 
Olivia,  you  see,  and  feels  lonesome  in  this  big  house." 

Robert  hesitated. 

"  I'd  rather  stop  now.  Mrs.  Winwood  is  almost  well. 
The  nurse  can  stay  a  week  longer  if  you  want  her,  but 
even  that  is  not  necessary.  Mrs.  Winwood  has  her 
maid." 

Henry  Winwood  gave  him  a  shrewd,  approving  look. 

"  You're  frank,  you're  honest,  but  you'll  never  make 
a  doctor  to  the  rich.  You'll  never  go  in  this  city.  First 
you  make  me  cut  my  check  in  half,  then  you  refuse  to 
continue  your  visits." 

"  You  know  why,"  Robert  said  curtly.  "  You  know 
that  I  didn't  want  to  come  in  the  first  place." 

"  I  don't  blame  you,"  Winwood  said.  "  Well,  you'll 
have  to  have  your  way.  If  you  won't,  you  won't.  I'm 
mighty  indebted  to  you  as  it  is." 

He  shook  hands  cordially  with  Robert,  who  then 
went  up-stairs  to  take  leave  of  his  patient.  Mrs.  Win- 
wood  was  inclined  to  be  tearful. 

"  But  you'll  come  sometimes  to  see  me,  Doctor,  won't 
you?  You  know  you  and  I  were  always  friends." 

"  And  always  will  be,"  he  answered  heartily. 

He  parted  from  her  with  genuine  regret,  for  the  sim- 
plicity and  kindness  of  her  nature  had  been  a  balm  to 
him  during  these  visits  to  the  scene  of  a  dead  joy.  When 

323 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

he  went  out  of  the  house  his  first  feeling  was  of  relief, 
but  as  he  drew  near  to  the  eastern  quarter  of  the  town 
the  inevitable  reaction  came.  He  began  to  regret  that 
he  had  not  consented  to  pay  two  or  three  more  calls, 
thus  prolonging  his  leave-taking  of  Olivia. 

The  day  was  heavy  with  the  first  warmth  of- spring. 
Strong,  close  odors  were  wafted  from  open  doorways, 
and  from  cellars  underneath  little  sour  restaurants.  In 
the  streets  all  was  noise  and  babel.  The  foreign  popula- 
tion was  welcoming  the  warm  sunshine  with  much  volu- 
bility and  noisy  good-temper.  Robert  made  his  way 
along  the  crowded  pavements  with  the  ease  of  the  ab- 
stracted man.  As  he  drew  near  his  home,  shrill  childish 
voices  called  to  him,  and  a  little  girl,  all  pink  pinafore 
and  shining  pigtails,  ran  up  and  caught  his  hand. 

"  Wie  geht's,  Liebchenf  "  he  said. 

Other  children  surrounded  him.  He  made  his  escape 
with  bribes  of  pennies,  and  took  refuge  in  his  rooms. 

He  had  been  there  some  minutes  before  he  saw  lying 
en  his  desk  a  square  white  envelope,  the  superscription 
of  which  made  his  heart  beat  fast. 

He  did  not  open  the  letter  at  once,  because  he  did 
not  wish  to  face  at  once  the  dividing  of  his  roads.  He 
divined  that  this  message  from  Olivia,  however  ordi- 
nary its  surface  purport,  marked  a  crisis;  that  it  was  in 
a  sense  the  summing  up  of  their  future  relationship;  of 
her  interpretation  of  the  words  which  they  had  read 
together. 

He  waited  until  the  letter  and  what  it  might  imply 
seemed  an  old  story,  then  he  opened  it. 

"  DEAR  DR.  ERSKINE,"  it  ran,  "  will  you  dine  with  us 
informally  on  Tuesday  evening,  the  tenth  of  May,  at 

324 


URBS    BEATA 


eight  ?    We  expect  a  few  people  whom  I  think  you  would 
find  interesting. 

"  Yours  very  cordially, 

"  OLIVIA  WINWOOD  MALLORY." 

That  was  all,  but  as  he  read,  the  kingdoms  of  this 
world  and  all  the  glory  of  them  unrolled  before  him. 
He  had  lost  much,  he  might  gain  more.  What  she  could 
do  for  him  could  be  measured  in  both  spiritual  and  mate- 
rial terms,  and  he  knew  that  the  one  involved  the  other. 
His  chance  to  rise,  to  enter  this  world  of  hers  in  his 
professional  character,  was  in  her  hand,  but,  after  all, 
this  was  but  an  incident.  The  main  thing  was  the  op- 
portunity to  measure  his  power  against  hers — to  prove 
the  truth  of  her  unspoken  words. 

He  faced  the  temptation  squarely.  He  knew  that 
the  strength  of  his  feeling  would  rob  his  intercourse  of 
the  element  of  friendliness.  He  knew  that  to  see  her 
would  be  to  seek  to  conquer  her:  to  force  her  to  set  her 
whole  life  to  the  import  of  that  last  scene  between  them. 

Something  brutal,  hard,  revengeful  stirred  within 
him.  All  the  cruelty  of  the  lower  nature  awoke  and 
clamored  for  the  exercise  of  its  power.  To  subdue  her, 
to  bind  her  to  himself,  to  make  clear  to  her  the  necessity 
of  bowing  fully  to  an  emotion  which  had  not  been  strong 
enough  to  save  her  from  disloyalty  and  was  now  strong 
enough  to  compel  an  unholy  fidelity,  to  do  this  would 
be  to  satisfy  something  deeper  than  the  claims  of  poetic 
justice. 

"Olivia!  Olivia!  It  is  your  choice.  I  sought  the 
heights  with  you  once.  This  is  your  choice." 

Yet  the  cry  of  his  heart  accused  himself  only.  He 
did  not  confuse  a  possible  intention  with  the  assured  suc- 

325 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

cess  of  the  incredible  enterprise,  which  seemed  a  part  of 
his  old  delirium.  He  doubted  that  she  would  ever  step 
beyond  the  realm  of  the  spirit  with  its  unjudged  and 
unrecorded  liberties.  But  to  watch  her  suffer,  to  stay 
in  her  world,  to  use  its  ladders — 

He  sat  for  a  long  time  in  deep  absorption,  then  on 
his  confusions  a  beam  of  austere  light  fell,  which  seemed 
the  product  of  his  winter's  trial.  By  its  illumination  he 
saw  neither  the  face  of  Brooke  nor  of  Olivia;  neither 
Brooke  nor  Olivia  beckoned  to  him,  but  all  that  was 
great  and  worth  while  and  inspiring  in  his  profession. 
He  was  realizing,  not  through  his  feeling — for  that  was 
like  a  sea  still  rocking  after  the  tempest  has  departed — 
but  through  his  nobler  reason,  that  to  a  man  who  reaches 
the  full  measure  of  his  manhood  the  deepest  love  can 
be  only  an  incident  in  comparison  with  the  claim  of  his 
chosen  work.  On  this  work  and  its  supreme  require- 
ments he  must  base  his  future  life.  To  pursue  his  labors 
diligently,  to  rise  in  his  profession  by  his  own  merit,  to 
confuse  his  aims  by  no  element  of  personal  ambition, 
this  was  the  vision  that,  breaking  in  upon  his  tumults, 
made  all  still. 

He  had  conquered,  perhaps,  but  he  hated  his  victory, 
as  people  will  always  find  the  first  fruits  of  reason  bitter. 


Firefly  and  Jim  were  seated  on  their  fire-escape,  as 
the  most  convenient  balcony  from  which  to  enjoy  the 
soft  splendor  of  the  April  night,  held  in  trance  by  a  big, 
pale  moon.  A  rubber  plant  and  a  kitten  bore  them  com- 
pany. Some  kitchen  utensils  hung  airily  from  the 
railings. 

326 


URBS     BEATA 


Firefly  was  looking  up  at  the  moon  with  that  dream- 
ing expression  which  always  made  her  husband  uncom- 
fortable. 

"  Come  back  to  earth.  I  can't  have  my  wife  runnin' 
off  from  me  like  that.  I'll  get  a  divorce  on  the  ground 
of  desertion,"  Jim  said  with  a  chuckle;  adding,  "  If  you 
weren't  such  a  blamed  good  cook,  and  if  you  couldn't 
dance  like  the  devil,  I'd  think  you  was  going  to  die 
young." 

"  Not  me." 

"  You're  a  lot  nicer  married  than  when  I  was  courtin' 
you,"  Jim  said,  regarding  her  with  satisfaction. 

"  I  didn't  cook  for  you  then,"  she  said  with  a  little 
smile.  "  Didn't  somebody  knock,  Jim?  " 

They  listened. 

"  Yes,  there's  somebody  there." 

She  crossed  the  little  kitchen  and  opened  the  door. 
In  the  hall  stood  Robert. 

"  Oh,  Dr.  Erskine!    Well,  I  am  glad!  " 

Jim  came  forward,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  We've  been  makin'  guesses  about  you,  Doctor.  I 
thought  some  of  dropping  in  your  place  yesterday." 

"  I've  been  busier  than  usual,"  Robert  said,  "  but 
now  I'm  changing  all  my  plans.  I'm  leaving  town  very 
soon." 

Firefly  turned  abruptly  away  and  began  hunting  for 
the  matches,  that  she  might  light  the  lamp.  She  pro- 
longed her  search  unnecessarily,  glad  of  the  deep  shadow 
in  the  room. 

Jim  proposed  the  parlor,  but  Robert  said  that  he 
preferred  the  kitchen.  He  sat  down  by  the  table,  his 
face  in  the  lamplight  looking  white  and  tired.  After  talk- 
ing with  them  a  few  moments  he  took  out  Winwood's 

327 


THE    PORT    OF    STORMS 

check  and  made  it  over  to  them.     Jim,  seeing  the  amount, 
protested. 

"  You  don't  owe  us  near  that  much,  Doctor.  You 
don't  owe  us  anything  as  far  as  that  goes." 

"  I  can  never  repay  you,"  Robert  said;  "  so  this  can 
only  be  a  little  part.  The  rest  is  friendship." 

The  tears  sprang  to  Firefly's  eyes. 

"  You  won't  forget  us,  Doctor  ?  " 

"Forget  you!" 

He  went  from  them  into  a  long  silence.  Already 
he  seemed  to  them  like  one  who  has  said  good-by. 

"  Where  is  the  place  you're  going? "  Firefly  asked 
timidly. 

"  To  Trenthampton — to  my  old  home." 

"Does  Miss  Brooke  live  there?" 

"  Yes,  and  my  parents." 

"  We'll  miss  you,  Doctor,"  Jim  said  heartily. 

Robert  took  his  leave  of  them  soon.  At  the  door 
Firefly  asked: 

"  May  I  speak  with  you  in  the  hall  a  minute — just 
a  minute?" 

"  Why,  of  course." 

When  she  was  alone  with  Robert  the  words  that  she 
had  wished  to  say  died  on  her  lips.  She  stood  gazing 
at  him  with  wistful,  questioning  eyes. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"  What  do  you  do  with  love  that  didn't  reach  home?  " 

He  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"  That's  a  hard  question,  Firefly.  I  suppose  that  if 
there  is  a  God  we'll  find  it  with  Him;  if  not,  we  will 
sleep  and  forget  it." 

"  Thank  you,  Doctor,"  she  said  gravely.  She  held 
out  her  hand.  "  I  wish  you  good  luck,  Doctor." 

328 


URBS    BEATA 


They  shook  hands,  then  he  went  down  the  stairs.  At 
the  landing  he  turned.  She  was  still  standing  motion- 
less, gazing  into  the  darkness  that  hid  him. 

On  the  way  he  pondered  her  words,  but  dreamily 
and  in  an  abstract  way,  as  if  he  had  read  them  in  a  book. 
When  he  reentered  his  rooms  he  sat  down  to  write  some 
letters.  The  first  was  to  Brooke. 

"  I  am  coming  back  to  Trenthampton  to  take  up  the 
work  Dr.  Gorton  wishes  me  to  do.  Perhaps  some  day 
I'll  be  worthy  of  that  great  inheritance.  I  am  willing  to 
wait  and  to  work." 

He  added  a  little  account  of  his  plans,  but  he  made 
no  allusion  to  the  thought  uppermost  in  his  mind.  Time 
alone  could  answer  his  question. 

He  then  wrote  to  Dr.  Gorton  and  to  his  father.  The 
note  to  Olivia  he  left  until  last. 


22  329 


CHAPTER   XLVI 

OLIVIA  waited  with  more  impatience  than  she  had 
ever  known  in  her  life  for  Robert's  reply  to  her  invita- 
tion. Its  significance  would  be  crucial.  On  his  accept- 
ance she  was  almost  willing  to  stake  her  whole  record 
of  mastery  from  the  time  when,  as  a  stormy  little  child, 
her  playmates  had  quarreled  among  themselves  for  her 
favors.  His  fidelity  was  now  as  necessary  to  her  heart 
as  it  was  to  her  sense  of  rulership. 

Surfeited  as  she  had  been  with  homage,  she  had 
always  had  her  moments  of  longing  for  some  nature 
strong  enough  to  hold  her.  Robert  had  come  nearer 
this  dominion  than  any  one,  but,  by  a  paradox,  the  very 
fact  that  he  had  yielded  to  her,  that  he  had  not  remained 
true  to  Brooke,  had  been  one  of  the  elements  which 
made  her  stormy  decision  at  the  musicale  possible. 
Though  she  herself  had  called  to  him,  Olivia  could  not 
forgive  him  his  defection  even  at  the  height  of  their 
brilliant,  unreal  summer  of  experimental  happiness. 

But  now  that  she  herself  had  been  disloyal,  and  had 
chosen  finally  her  portion  of  power,  she  was  realizing 
how  imperative  was  her  need  of  keeping  Robert  in  her 
life.  Her  act  had  cleared  her  vision,  had  centralized  her 
being  in  the  love  of  the  unattainable.  Passion,  now  a 
dark  and  tragic  figure,  crowned  with  bitter  herbs,  beck- 
oned her  along  rough  paths  to  goals  remote  from  para- 
dise. All  that  was  true,  perhaps  all  that  was  noblest  in 
her,  answered  its  cry,  its  supreme  signal.  If  in  the  future 
she  played  a  part,  her  acting  would  at  least  be  vitalized 

330 


URBS    BEATA 


by  the  primitive  forces  of  existence:  the  forces  that  in 
her  last  interview  with  Robert  had  swept  her  into  com- 
plete sincerity. 

Her  outward  composure  protected  her  from  betray- 
ing during  these  days  of  waiting  her  tempestuous  feel- 
ing. In  her  moments  of  confidence,  her  old  mocking 
gaiety  was  again  uppermost. 

She  was  seated  in  the  library  one  morning,  perfect- 
ing the  arrangement  of  her  guests  for  the  dinner,  when 
her  husband  entered.  He  laid  a  caressing  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  dearest?  " 

"  How  can  you  say  '  dearest '  at  half-past  ten  in  the 
morning?  It  is  a  word  which  should  only  be  used  after 
nightfall.  I  am  seating  people,  separating  the  bores 
from  the  goats." 

He  looked  puzzled. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  dear?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  Paul,  did  you  ever  know  a  nice  white  woolly  sheep 
that  was  entertaining?  I  never  did.  Where  is  your 
sense  of  humor  ?  " 

"  Do  I  lack  humor,  Olivia?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  better  warrant  of  your  noble  English 
descent  than  the  assurances  of  the  heralds." 

"  Have  you  heard  from  all  your  guests?" 

"  All  but  Dr.  Erskine." 

A  shadow  passed  over  his  face. 

"  I  did  not  know  that  you  had  included  him." 

"  I  hope  to  include  him  very  often,  Paul.  He  is  a 
gallant  gentleman." 

"  He  is  not — in  our  circle." 

"  He  will  be,  if  I  say  so." 
331 


"  Go  slowly,  dear." 

"  As  your  wife  my  privileges  are  unlimited.  Your 
people  must  receive  my  friends." 

He  made  no  answer. 

She  bent  over  her  desk,  her  little  silver  pencil  moving 
rapidly.  Paul  watched  her  with  an  ache  in  his  heart. 
She  was  always  charming,  always  friendly,  but  he  had 
already  learned  that  the  close  companionship  of  marriage 
had  not  brought  him  nearer  to  the  real  Olivia. 

When  she  had  completed  her  task  she  rose  and,  see- 
ing the  look  on  his  face,  she  went  to  the  piano  and 
began  to  play  softly  some  German  love-songs.  He  came 
over  to  her  and  stood  by  her  side,  an  humble,  grateful 
expression  in  his  eyes. 

"  Thank  you,  Olivia.     You  always  read  my  moods." 

"  You  are  not  difficult  to  read,  Paul,"  she  said  with 
a  slight  smile. 

He  hesitated. 

"  Dear,  there's  a  matter  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about. 
You  know  we've  been  members  of  St.  Alban's  for  gen- 
erations. You've  never  been  confirmed.  I  had  a  letter 
from  the  Bishop  this  morning  saying  that  he  will  con- 
firm you  in  our  private  chapel  at  your  convenience. 
What  shall  I  tell  him?" 

"  Anything  you  like." 

He  looked  grave. 

"  Don't  you  feel  at  all  interested,  Olivia?  " 

She  laughed. 

"  No,  because  I'm  only  doing  it  as  I  give  your  din- 
ners, or  appear  at  certain  houses.  I'm  not  religious,  not 
in  your  way  at  least." 

"  I  wish  your  heart  was  in  it,  Olivia." 

"  Well,  it  never  will  be.  St.  Alban's  is  a  fashionable 
332 


URBS    BEATA 


club.  I  have  no  illusions  about  it.  But  bring  the  Bishop 
if  necessary.  I  like  him — he  tells  a  good  story." 

Paul  looked  unutterable  things,  but  he  made  no  com- 
ment. Olivia's  frank  paganism  was  one  of  her  dreadful 
charms. 

The  day  wore  away,  but  no  message  came  from  Rob- 
ert. When  evening  closed  in  she  went  up  to  be  dressed 
for  a  large  dinner-party.  Her  women,  who  took  more 
genuine  delight  in  their  task  than  is  usual  in  such  cases, 
had  everything  in  impressive  readiness.  She  was  in  a 
mood  to  enjoy  the  long  ceremony,  and  she  gave  herself 
into  their  hands  with  a  sigh  of  content. 

While  her  hair  was  being  arranged  her  evening  mail 
was  brought  to  her.  She  put  aside  all  letters  but  one. 

She  broke  the  sea1  -ith  hands  that  were  not  quite 
steady,  then  read: 

"  MY  DEAR  MRS.  MALLORY: 

"  I  leave  the  city  this  afternoon,  not  to  return,  as  I 
am  to  take  up  Dr.  Gorton's  work  in  Trenthampton.  I 
regret  that  I  am  thus  prevented  from  accepting  your  in- 
vitation to  dinner. 

"  Very  sincerely  yours, 

"  ROBERT  ERSKINE." 

The  sheet  of  paper  dropped  from  her  hands.     The 
maid  bent  over  her,  a  look  of  apprehension  in  her  face. 
"Is  Madame  ill?     Madame  is  very  pale." 


On  the  afternoon  of  this  day  Robert,  having  com- 
pleted all  his  arrangements  for  departure,  started  for 
the  ferry  on  foot.  Now  that  he  was  leaving  the  great 

333 


THE     PORT    OF     STORMS 

city,  never  more  to  return  as  a  metropolitan,  he  realized 
how  strong  a  hold  it  had  upon  his  affections  and  his 
imagination.  He  realized  what  a  colossal  stage  it  was 
upon  which  his  comedy  had  gone  forward,  and  in  what  a 
maelstrom  of  activities  his  own  heart  had  ridden  the 
storm. 

As  he  gazed  at  the  tall  buildings  from  the  rail  of  the 
ferry-boat  on  its  passage  down  the  river,  they  seemed 
transfigured  into  an  enchanted,  changeless  stronghold  in 
which  the  memory  of  his  love  would  be  forever  guarded. 
Olivia  was  the  city,  but  he  sought  other  streets  and 
fairer  spires. 

The  last  look  brought  a  last  sharp  pain  of  recollec- 
tion, then  he  turned  his  face  westward. 

The  train  flew  along  through  the  marshes.  Already 
in  the  distance  the  clear  intense  green  of  the  awakened 
country  shone  with  all  the  promises  of  abundant  life. 
The  blossom-scented  air  brought  other  memories,  and 
the  faces  of  old  friends  looked  in  upon  him.  Old  voices 
called  him,  and  thoughts  and  emotions  awoke  in  him 
which  might  well  have  formed  part  of  the  immortal  res- 
urrections of  the  spring. 

(i) 


THE     END 


334 


>   "A  beautiful  romance  of  the  days  of  Robert  Burns." 

Nancy  Stair. 

A  Novel.  By  ELINOR  MACARTNEY  LANE,  author 
of  "Mills  of  God."  Illustrated.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  With  very  much  the  grace  and  charm  of  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  the  author  of  '  The  Life  of  Nancy  Stair '  com- 
bines unusual  gifts  of  narrative,  characterization,  color,  and 
humor.  She  has  also  delicacy,  dramatic  quality,  and  that 
rare  gift — historic  imagination. 

"  '  The  Life  of  Nancy  Stair '  is  interesting  from  the  first 
sentence  to  the  last ;  the  characters  are  vital  and  are,  also, 
most  entertaining  company;  the  denouement  unexpected 
and  picturesque  and  cleverly  led  up  to  from  one  of  the 
earliest  chapters;  the  story  moves  swiftly  and  without  a 
hitch.  Robert  Burns  is  neither  idealized  nor  caricatured  ; 
Sandy,  Jock,  Pitcairn,  Danvers  Carmichael,  and  the  Duke 
of  Borthewicke  are  admirably  relieved  against  each  other, 
and  Nancy  herself  as  irresistible  as  she  is  natural.  To  be 
sure,  she  is  a  wonderful  child,  but  then  she  manages  to 
make  you  believe  she  was  a  real  one.  Indeed,  reality  and 
naturalness  are  two  of  the  charms  of  a  story  that  both 
reaches  the  heart  and  engages  the  mind,  and  which  can 
scarcely  fail  to  make  for  itself  a  large  audience.  A  great 
deal  of  delightful  talk  and  interesting  incidents  are  used  for 
the  development  of  the  story.  Whoever  reads  it  will  advise 
everybody  he  knows  to  read  it ;  and  those  who  do  not  care 
for  its  literary  quality  cannot  escape  the  interest  of  a  love- 
story  full  of  incident  and  atmosphere." 

"  Powerfully  and  attractively  written." — Pittsburg  Post. 
"  A  story  best  described  with  the  word  '  charming.'  " 

—  Washington  Post. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


t  "Daring  in  conception  and  fulfilment." 

— Boston  Herald. 

Mills  of  God. 

By  ELINOR  MACARTNEY  LANE.  Illustrated.  i2mo. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  It  is  a  good  novel  in  comparison  to  even  the  best  in  current  Amer- 
ican fiction." —  The  New  York  Herald. 

"The  reader  will  not  willingly  lay  aside  the  book  till  the  end  is 
reached.  The  story  is  exceedingly  well  written  and  thoroughly  well 
told."—  The  Washington  Post. 

"  The  story  shows  maturity,  resource,  and  distinction.  It  combines 
the  dash  and  valor  of  the  favorite  school  of  fiction  with  the  poise,  acute- 
ness,  and  refinement  of  the  reflective  type.  It  is  compact  of  fresh, 
generous  character  creation,  appealing  and  exquisite." — Boston  7'imes. 

"  Her  theme  is  daring  and  delicate.  Notwithstanding,  the  final 
product  more  than  justifies  the  choice,  the  story  is  strong  and  fearlessly 
told,  the  novel  exceptional  in  finish  and  the  careful  balance  of  its  parts. ' 

—  The  Washington  Star. 

" '  Mills  of  God'  is  said  to  be  a  woman's  first  novel,  and  if  this  be 
true  the  writer,  Elinor  Macartney  Lane,  has  much  to  be  proud  of.  She 
has  studied  her  art  and  has  a  serious  view  of  it.  It  is  a  well-written, 
interesting,  and  readable  novel."  — New  York  Times  Saturday  fteview. 

"  She  certainly  will  be  heard  from  again  and  more  insistently.  Not 
only  for  the  pleasure  it  gives,  but  still  more  for  the  intellectual  delight 
of  watching  from  the  first  the  development  of  a  new  writer,  '  Mills  of 
God '  deserves  wide  attention.  Its  writer  is  a  coming  author." 

— New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"  A  romance  of  extraordinary  charm  and  carries  its  absorbing  story 
along  with  triumphant  decision.  The  ideals  of  the  book  are  high,  and 
the  romance  is  too  gallant  to  leave  the  mind  of  the  reader  in  a  depressed 
condition." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  A  brilliant  romance  of  Virginia  ;  a  deftly  woven  tale,  with  passion's 
power  for  good  and  evil  as  its  theme.  Mrs.  Lane  has  a  vivacious,  spir- 
ited, graphic  way  of  telling  a  story  and  portraying  character.  Her 
dialogue  has  an  air  of  life,  and  is  even-pointed  and  piquant.  She  has 
pictured  with  power,  yet  with  delicacy  and  reserve,  the  dawn  of  a  great 
passion,  the  futile  struggle  against  it,  and  the  surrender." 

— Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"A  mighty  good  romance.  The  diameters  are  complex  human 
beings,  instead  of  lay-figures  for  the  display  of  ready-made  chivalry, 
and  one  remembers  both  them  and  their  history  after  laying  down  the 
book." — Life. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


A  NOVEL  OF  REAL  IMPORTANCE. 

The  Law  of  Life. 

By  ANNA  McCLURE  SHOLL.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

This  remarkable  novel  presents  an  entirely  new  and  a  very  enter- 
taining  feature  of  American  national  and  social  development.  Miss 
Sholl  has  sought  her  inspiration  in  the  life  and  interests  of  a  large 
University,  as  that  life  is  felt  and  known  from  the  faculty  and  post- 
graduate standpoints.  The  author  has  brought  to  this  fascinating  and 
unfamiliar  subject  a  close  personal  knowledge  and  an  enthusiastic 
appreciation  of  its  possibilities  for  literary  purposes. 

"  The  book  is  exceptionally  interesting.  ...  A  genuine  touch 
of  dramatic  power." — Harry  Thurston  Peck. 

"  An  impassioned  romance,  told  with  admirable  balance ;  absorb- 
ingly interesting  and  one  of  the  most  vital  novels  of  the  day." — Lillian 
Whiting  in  the  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

"  The  writer  unfolds  an  every-day  tragedy  with  that  touch  of  inevi- 
tableness  that  we  usually  associate  with  the  work  of  the  masters." — New 
York  Evening  Telegram. 

"  A  remarkable  story  in  many  respects  ;  it  makes  one  think,  as  well 
as  sympathize,  and  gives  pleasure  as  a  tale  as  well  as  stimulates  as  a 
problem." —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  The  book  has  not  only  a  literary  grace  and  distinction,  but  a 
sympathetic  understanding  of  conditions,  a  sense  of  their  artistic  values; 
and  a  strong  feeling  for  that  law  of  life  from  which  the  book  takes  its 
title."—  Louisville  Evening  Post. 

"  Miss  Sholl  has  handled  her  subject  with  admirable  sureness 
ol  touch,  with  dignity  and  proper  restraint.  Her  lovers  are  be- 
ings of  flesh  and  blood,  not  puppets ;  she  faces  the  problem  fully, 
fearlessly ;  hence  the  compelling  strength  of  the  story,  its  excep- 
tional merit  as  the  product  of  an  American  pen." — Ntw  York 
Mail  and  Express. 

D.      APPLETON      AND      COMPANY,      NEW     YORK. 


THE  MASTERPIECE  OF  A  MASTER  MIND. 

The  Prodigal  Son. 

By  HALL  CAINE.    i2mo,  Ornamental  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"The  Prodigal  Son  "  follows  the  lines  of  the  Bible  para- 
ble in  the  principal  incidents,  but  in  certain  important 
particulars  it  departs  from  them.  In  a  most  convincing 
way,  and  with  rare  beauty,  the  story  shows  that  Christ's 
parable  is  a  picture  of  heavenly  mercy,  and  not  of  human 
justice,  and  if  it  were  used  as  an  example  of  conduct  among 
men  it  would  destroy  all  social  conditions  and  disturb  ac- 
cepted laws  of  justice.  The  book  is  full  of  movement  and 
incident,  and  must  appeal  to  the  public  by  its  dramatic 
story  alone.  The  Prodigal  Son  at  the  close  of  the  book 
has  learned  this  great  lesson,  and  the  meaning  of  the  parable 
is  revealed  to  him.  Neither  success  nor  fame  can  ever  wipe 
out  the  evil  of  the  past.  It  is  not  from  the  unalterable  laws 
of  nature  and  life  that  forgiveness  can  be  hoped  for. 

"  Since  '  The  Manxman '  Hall  Caine  has  written  nothing  so  moving 
in  its  elements  of  pathos  and  tragedy,  so  plainly  marked  with  the  power 
to  search  the  human  heart  and  reveal  its  secret  springs  of  strength  and 
weakness,  its  passion  and  strife,  so  sincere  and  satisfying  as  '  The  Prodi- 
gal Son.'  " — New  York  Times, 

"  It  is  done  with  supreme  self-confidence,  and  the  result  is  a  work 
of  genius." — New  York  Evening  Post. 

"  '  The  Prodigal  Son '  will  hold  the  reader's  attention  from  cover  to 
cover." — Philadelphia  Record. 

"  This  is  one  of  Hall  Caine's  best  novels — one  that  a  large  portion 
of  the  fiction-reading  public  will  thoroughly  enjoy." 

—  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  It  is  a  notable  piece  of  fiction." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

"  In  '  The  Prodigal  Son'  Hall  Caine  has  produced  his  greatest  work." 

— Boston  Herald. 

"  Mr.  Caine  has  achieved  a  work  of  extraordinary  merit,  a  fiction  as 
finely  conceived,  as  deftly  constructed,  as  some  of  the  best  work  of  our 
living  novelists." — London  Daily  Mail. 

"  '  The  Prodigal  Son '  is  indeed  a  notable  novel ;  and  a  work  that 
may  certainly  rank  with  the  best  of  recent  fiction.  .  .  ." 

—  Westminster  Gazette. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


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